’But ye’ll bate the nesty Rooshians, dearie—­I meant for to say the Prooshians, Christina—­an’ ye’ll come marchin’ hame a conductor or an inspector, or whatever they ca’ it, wi’ medals on yer breist an’ riches in yer purse——­’

‘An’ rings on his fingers an’ bells——­’

‘Noo, noo, lassie, ye’re no to mak’ fun o’ me!  Whaur’s his case?’

Christina handed her an aluminium cigarette case—­the best in the shop—­and she presented it to Macgregor, saying:  ’Ye’re no to gang an’ hurt yer health wi’ smokin’; but when ye tak’ a ceegarette, ye’ll maybe gi’e a thocht to an auld body that’ll be rememberin’ ye, baith mornin’ an’ nicht.’

‘If he smokes his usual, he’ll be thinkin’ o’ ye every twinty meenutes,’ remarked the girl, and drawing on her gloves, she came round to the door in order to close an interview which threatened to become lugubrious for all parties.

* * * * *

‘Everybody’s terrible kind,’ Macgregor observed, when he found himself alone with Christina on the pavement.  ’Will ye look at the ring noo?’

She shook her head and stepped out briskly.

After a little while he revived.  ’I hope ye’ll like it, Christina.  It’s got pearls on it.  I hope it’ll fit ye.’  A long pause.  ’I wish ye wud say something.’

‘What’ll I say?’

‘Onything.  I never heard ye dumb afore.’

‘Maybe I’m reformin’.’

‘Christina!’

‘That’s ma name, but ye needna tell everybody.’

‘Dinna tease.  We—­we ha’e awfu’ little time.  Tak’ aff yer glove an’ try the ring.  Naebody’ll notice.  Ye can look at it later on.’

‘I’m no in the habit o’ acceptin’ rings frae young men.’

‘But—­but we’re engaged.’

‘That’s news, but I doobt it’s no official.’

‘At least we’re near engaged.  Say we are, Christina.’

‘This is most embarrassing, Mr. Robinson.’

‘Aw, Christina!’ said the boy, helplessly.

She let him remain in silent suspense for several minutes, until, in fact, they turned into the quiet street of her abode.  Then she casually remarked: 

‘Ma han’s gettin’ cauld wantin’ its glove, Mac.’

He seized it joyfully and endeavoured to put the ring on.  ’It’s ower wee!’ he cried, aghast.

‘That’s ma middle finger.’

It fitted nicely.  Triumphantly he exclaimed:  ‘Noo we’re engaged!’

She had no rejoinder ready.

‘Ye can tak’ ma arm, if ye like,’ he said presently, just a little too confidently.

‘I dinna feel in danger o’ collapsin’ at present,’ she replied, regarding the ring under the lamp they were passing.  ’Ye’re an extravagant thing!’ she went on.  ‘I hope ye got it on appro.’

‘What—­dae ye no like it?’

‘I like the feel o’ it,’ she admitted softly, ‘an’ it’s real bonny; but ye—­ye shouldna ha’e done it, Mac.’  She made as if to remove the ring.