“Will you kindly step this way?” came the polite invitation. Macgregor proceeded to the counter and bumped his knee against the chair that stood there. “Useful or ornamental?” “I――I dinna ken,” he answered between his teeth. “I’ll break that chair’s neck for it some day!” cried Christina, her natural sympathy for suffering getting the better of her commercial instincts. Then she coughed in her best style. “Do you think the young lady would like something to wear?” “I dinna ken, I’m sure.” Macgregor pushed back his cap and scratched his head. “Let’s see what ye’ve got for wearin’ an’――an’ no’ for wearin’.” Christina, too, nearly scratched her head. She was striving to think where she could lay hands on articles for which she could reasonably charge half-a-crown. Without very noticeable delay she turned to a drawer, and presently displayed a small green oblong box. She opened it. “This is a nice fountain-pen,” she explained. “Its price has been reduced――――” “Aw, I’m no’ heedin’ aboot reduced things, thank ye a’ the same.” “I’ll make it two shillings to you,” Christina said persuasively. “That’s a very drastic reduction.” Which was perfectly true. On the other hand, the pen was an old model which she had long despaired of selling. “Nothing could be more suitable for a young lady,” she added, exhibiting the nib. “Real gold.” But Macgregor shook his head. With apparent cheerfulness she laid the pen aside. “It’s for a _young_ lady, I think you said?” “Ay, it’s for a young lady, but she’s no’ that young either. Aboot ma ain age, maybe.” Christina nearly said “about twelve, I suppose,” but refrained. She was learning to subdue her tendency to chaff. “I perceive,” she said gravely. “Is she fond of needlework?” “I couldna say. She’s gettin’ a pink dress, but I think her mither’s sewin’ it for her.” “A pink dress!” muttered Christina, forgetting herself. “Oh, Christopher Columbus!” She turned away sharply. “Eh?” “She’ll be a brunette?” said Christina calmly, though her cheeks were flushed. “I couldna say,” said Macgregor again. Christina brought forward a tray of glittering things. “These combs are much worn at present,” she informed him. “Observe the jewels.” “They’ll no’ be real,” said Macgregor doubtfully. “Well――a――no. Not exactly _real_. But everybody weers――wears imitation jewellery nowadays. The west-end’s full of it――chock-a-block, in fact.” She held up a pair of combs of almost blinding beauty. “Chaste――ninepence each.” “Ay,” sighed Macgregor, “but I’m no’ sure――――” “Silver belt――quite the rage――one shilling.” Macgregor remembered the scarlet belt at the picnic. He had a vague vision of a gift of his in its place. He held out his hand for the glittering object. “You don’t happen to know the size of the lady’s waist?” said Christina in a most discreet tone of voice. “I couldna say.” He laid down the belt, but kept looking at it.