’Thon girl!’—­pointing to a damsel in a dark skirt and pink blouse, who had just emerged from the warehouse.

‘What aboot her?’ said Macgregor impatiently,

‘It’s her—­the fat yin—­the girl I burst the twa bob on!’

‘She’s no that fat,’ Macgregor remarked without interest.  Then suddenly—­’Here!  What are ye efter?’

’Her!  She’s fat when ye’re close to her.  Come on!  I’ll introjuice ye.’

‘Thenk ye!  I’m no takin’ ony.’

‘Jist for fun.  I want to see her face when she sees me again.’

‘Weel, I’ll no prevent ye.  So long.’  At that moment the girl was held up at a busy crossing.

‘Hullo, Maggie!’ said Willie pertly.

‘I’m off,’ said Macgregor—­but his arm was gripped.

The girl turned.  ‘Hullo,’ she said coolly; ‘still livin’?’ Catching sight of Macgregor, she giggled.  It was not an unpleasing giggle.  Lean girls cannot produce it.

‘This is Private Macgreegor Robi’son,’ said Willie, unabashed.

She smiled and held out her hand.  After a moment she said to Willie:  ‘Are ye no gaun to tell him ma name, stupid?’

‘I forget it, except the Maggie.’

‘Aweel,’ she said good-humouredly, ’Private Robi’son’ll jist ha’e to content hissel’ wi’ that, though it’s a terrible common name.’  She did the giggle again.

The chance of crossing came, and they all moved over; on the crowded pavement it was impossible to proceed three abreast.

‘Never mind me,’ said Willie humorously.

‘Wha’s mindin’ you?’ she retorted.

‘Gettin’ hame?’ said Macgregor with an effort at politeness, while fuming inwardly.

‘Jist that.  Awfu’ warm weather, is’t no?  It was fair meltin’ in the warehoose the day.  I’m fair dished up.’  She heaved a sigh, which was no more unpleasing than her giggle.  ‘It’s killin’ weather for you sojer lads,’ she added kindly.

Macgregor experienced a wavelet of sympathy.  ’Wud ye like a slider?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Ye’re awfu’ kind.  I could dae wi’ it fine.’

Presently the three were seated in an ice-cream saloon.  The conversation was supplied mainly by the girl and Willie, and took the form of a wordy sparring match.  Every time she scored a point the girl glanced at Macgregor.  He became mildly amused by her repartee, and at last took a cautious look at her.

She was certainly stout, but not with a clumsy stoutness; in fact, her figure was rather attractive.  She had dark brown hair, long lashed, soft, dark eyes, a provocative, mobile mouth, and a nice pinky-tan colouring.  At the same time, she was too frankly forward and consistently impudent for Macgregor’s taste; and he noticed that her hands were not pretty like Christina’s.

She caught his eye, and he smiled back, but absently.  He was wondering what Christina was doing and how she would take his letter in the morning. . . .  He consulted his watch.  A long, empty evening lay before him.  How on earth was he to fill it?  He wanted distraction, and already his companions’ chaff was getting tiresome.