The following morning’s light found him at his work――no longer, alas! in the far west-end with its windfall of pennies for the car, but in the heart of the city. The man under whom he worked found him so slow and stupid that he threatened to report him to his employer. Altogether it was a dreary day, and Macgregor, who usually paid enough attention to his duties to escape the burden of time, was more than glad when the last working hour had dragged to its close. He went home by an unaccustomed though not entirely unfamiliar route. It led him past the shop wherein he had made the birthday purchases on Saturday afternoon. The window was more brightly illuminated than the majority of its neighbours; the garish contents were even more attractive than in daylight. Macgregor found himself regarding them with a half-hearted interest. Presently he noticed that one of the sliding glass panels at the back of the window was open a few inches. This aperture permitted him to see the following: A hand writing a letter on a sloping desk, a long plait of fair hair over a scarlet shoulder, and a youthful profile with an expression very much in earnest yet cheerful withal. Macgregor could not help watching the writer, and he continued to do so for several minutes with increasingly lively interest. He was even wondering to whom the letter might be written, when the writer, having dipped her pen too deeply, made a horrid, big blot. She frowned and for an instant put out her tongue. Then, having regarded the blot for a space with a thoughtful gaze, she seized the pen and with a few deft touches transformed the blot into the semblance of a black beetle. Whereupon she smiled with such transparent delight that Macgregor smiled also. “What are ye grinnin’ at?” said a voice at his elbow. He turned to discover Willie Thomson. At no time in the whole course of their friendship had he felt a keener desire to hit Willie on his impudent nose. “Naething,” he muttered shortly. “Are ye gaun hame?” “Ay,” said Willie, noting the other’s discomposure, but not referring to it directly. “This isna yer usual road hame.” “Depends whaur I’m comin’ frae,” returned Macgregor, quickening his pace. “Ha’e ye got a job yet, Wullie?” he enquired more graciously. “I tried yin the day, but it’s no’ gaun to suit me. But I’ve earned ninepence. I can len’ ye thon thruppence, if ye like.” “Aw, I’m no’ needin’ it noo.” “Weel, ha’e a ceegarette.” Willie produced a yellow packet. “Na, I’m no’ smokin’, Wullie.” “What’s wrang wi’ ye?” “Naething.... What sort of job was ye tryin’?” Willie told him, and thereafter proceeded to recount as many grievances as there had been hours in his working day. Macgregor encouraged him to enter into all sorts of detail, so that home was reached without reference to the shop window which had caused him amusement. “So long,” said Willie, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Maybe see ye later.”