“Noo, mither, ye're just talkin' havers,” he said. “My mother is as great a Socialist as I am.”
“Ay, but A keep ma heid.”
“That ye do, mither. Ye're gey cannie,” replied her son, shaking his head, and so they passed the word to and fro, and Maitland sat listening to the chat. The delightful spirit of camaraderie between mother and son reminded him of a similar relationship between mother and sons in his own home in pre-war days. He could not tear himself away. It was well on to his dinner hour before he rose to go.
“You have given me a delightful hour, Mrs. McNish,” he said as he shook hands. “You made me think of my own home in the old days,—I mean before the war came and smashed everything.” The old lady's eyes were kindly scanning his face.
“Ay, the war smashed yere hame?” Maitland nodded in silence.
“His brither,” said Malcolm, quietly.
“Puir laddie,” she said, patting his hand.
“And my mother,” added Maitland, speaking with difficulty, “and that, of course, meant our home—and everything. So I thank you for a very happy hour,” he added with a smile.
“Wad ye care to come again?” said the old lady with a quiet dignity. “We're plain fowk but ye'll be always welcome.”
“I just will, Mrs. McNish. And I will send you the tickets.”