Maimie glanced at the heap of destruction for one moment, and then burst into tears.
“I didn’t go for to do it,” shouted Luke, overwhelmed with horror and remorse. “I thought ye’d firm howd on tray, Maimie.”
“Eh dear, eh dear,” sobbed Maimie, the tears pouring through her outspread fingers, her bosom heaving convulsively. “Whatever mun I do? Feyther’ll be mad. And I’ll be that shamed before your mother and all.”
Luke struck at his forehead vengefully.
“I’m a regular fool,” he cried. “I’m a downright wastral and good-for-naught, that’s what I am. I can’t forgive myself for being so rough. Dunnot take agen me, Maimie, dunnot! I’m right down sorry—awful sorry, I am.”
“I—don’t—belive—you are,” sobbed Maimie.
“I’ll swear I am,” asserted Luke, and, picking his way through the fragments of crockery, he put his arm round Maimie’s waist.
“Well, maybe you are,” she said, relenting a little, but still weeping piteously. “’Tis a judgment on me I’m sure; I didn’t ought to ha’ spoke that way about your mother to your face.”
“Nay, if it comes to that,” groaned Luke, penitently, “I didn’t ought to ha’ cast up about the brass to ye.”
By this time he was mopping delicately at Maimie’s eyes with a beautiful silk handkerchief, duly perfumed with a bottle of sixpenny scent; and Maimie was so touched by this attention that she presently smiled wanly through her tears, and the two concluded a compact of friendship as they cleared away the broken china.