“They canna thole Aunt Purdie. It was her that brought the message frae ma uncle――as if it was a favour. They said I was to choose for masel’.” “Pride’s an awfu’ thing for costin’ folk cash,” the girl remarked, with a shake of her head. “Eh?” “Naething,” she replied. After a slight pause she continued: “It’s no’ for me to speak aboot yer parents, but I hope ye’ll excuse me sayin’ that ye’re a bigger fool than ye look.” “Wha――what d’ye mean?” “I didna mean to insult ye or hurt yer feelin’s.” Another pause. “D’ye no’ want to get up in the world, man? D’ye no’ want to be a millionaire――or a thoosandaire, onyway?” “Me?” “Ay, you!” Across the counter he regarded her in a semi-dazed fashion, speechless. She was rather flushed; her eyes danced with eagerness. Apparently she was all in earnest. “Are ye gaun to be a penter a’ yer life?” she demanded. “What for no’?” he retorted with some spirit. “It’s guid pay.” “Guid pay! In ten year what’ll ye be makin’?” “I couldna say. Maybe――maybe twenty-five shillin’s; maybe――――” “A week?” “Ay; of course,” he said, nettled. “D’ye think I meant a month?” “If ye was wi’ yer uncle an’ stickin’ to yer business, I wud ha’e said ’a day’! Ma gracious goodness! if ye was pleasin’ a man like that, there’s nae sayin’ where ye wud be in ten year.” “Ach,” he said, with an attempt at lightness, “I’m no’ heedin’.” Christina doubled her fist and smote the counter with such violence that he fairly jumped on his seat. “Ye’re no’ heedin’! What’s the use o’ bein’ alive if ye’re no’ heedin’? But ye’re a’ the same, you young workin’ men. Yer rule is to dae the least ye can for yer wages, an’ never snap at an opportunity. An’ when ye get aulder ye gang on strike an’ gas aboot yer rights, but ye keep dumb enough aboot yer deserts, an’――――” “Here, haud on!” cried Macgregor, now thoroughly roused. “What dae you ken aboot it? Ye’re jist a lassie――――” “I’ve eyes an’ ears.” There was a pause. “Are ye a――a suffragist?” he asked, weakly. “I ha’ena quite decided on that p’int. Are you in favour o’ votes for females? Aweel, there’s nae use answerin’, for ye’ve never thought aboot it. I suppose, like the ither young men aboot here, ye buy yer brains every Seturday done up in the sports edition o’ the evenin’ paper. Oh, Christopher Columbus! that’s when _I_ get busy on a Seturday nicht. Footba’――footba’――footba’!” Macgregor swallowed these remarks, and reverted to the previous question. “What,” he enquired a little loftily, “dae _you_ expec’ to be earnin’ ten year frae the noo?” Promptly, frankly, she replied: “If I’m no’ drawin’ thirty shillin’s a week I’ll consider masel’ a bad egg. Of course, it a’ depends on whether I select to remain single or itherwise.” This was too much for Macgregor. He surveyed her with such blank bewilderment that she burst out laughing.