He called the following evening――and found M. Tod alone at the receipt of custom. He had yet to learn that on Tuesdays and Thursdays Christina left business early in order to attend classes. He must have looked foolish as he approached the counter, yet he had the presence of mind to ask for a ha’penny evening paper. Fortune being fickle――thank goodness!――does not confine her favour to the brave, and on this occasion she had arranged that M. Tod should be sold out of that particular evening paper. So Macgregor saved his money as well as his self-respect. On the morrow M. Tod, who still clung to the belief that the young man wrote for the papers, reported the incident to her assistant. Possibly Christina could have given a better reason than this for her subsequent uncertainty of temper, and doubtless it was mere absent-mindedness that accounted for her leaving the sliding panel to the window a few inches open after she had thrown it wide without any apparent purpose. And it is highly probable that Macgregor would have taken advantage of the aperture had he not been again working overtime on that and on the two following nights. So it was not until Saturday afternoon that they met once more. Macgregor held aloof from the shop until M. Tod appeared――of course she was later than usual!――and, after an anxious gaze at the sky, proceeded to toddle up the street. Then he approached the window. He was feeling fairly hopeful. His increased allowance had come as a pleasant surprise. Moreover, he had saved during the week fourpence in car-money and had spent nothing. He had fifteenpence in his pocket――wealth! As he halted at the window, the panel at the back was drawn tight with an audible snap. For a moment he felt snubbed; then he assured himself there was nothing extraordinary in the occurrence, and prepared to enter the shop, reminding himself, firstly, that he was going to purchase a penholder, secondly, that he was not going to lose his head when the bell banged. Christina was perched at the desk writing with much diligence. She laid down a pencil and slipped from her stool promptly but without haste. “Good-afternoon, Mr. Robinson,” she said demurely. If anyone else in the world had called him “Mister Robinson” he would have resented it as chaff, but now, though taken aback, he felt no annoyance. “Ay, it’s a fine day,” he returned, rather irrelevantly, and suddenly held out his hand. This was a little more than Christina had expected, but she gave him hers with the least possible hesitation. For once in her life, however, she was not ready with a remark. Macgregor having got her hand, let it go immediately, as though he were doubtful as to the propriety of what he had done. “I’ve been workin’ late every day this week excep’ Tuesday,” he said. For an instant Christina looked pleased; then she calmly murmured: “Oh, indeed.” “Ay, every day excep’ Tuesday, till nine o’clock,” he informed her, with an effort. “Really!”