On the spur of the moment—­’What aboot a pictur hoose?’ he said.

‘That’s the cheese!’ cried Willie.

But Maggie shook her head and sighed, and explained that her mother was expecting her home for tea, and sighed again.

‘Ha’e yer tea wi’ us,’ said the hospitable Macgregor.

She glanced at him under lowered lashes, her colour rising.  ’My! ye’re awfu’ kind,’ she said softly.  ‘I wish to goodness I could.’

‘Scoot hame an’ tell yer mither, an’ we’ll wait for ye here,’ said stage-manager William.

‘I wudna trust you . . . but I think I could trust him.’

‘Oh, we’ll wait sure enough,’ Macgregor said indifferently.

‘I’ll risk it!’ she cried, and straightway departed.

Willie grinned at his friend.  ‘What dae ye think o’ fat Maggie?’ he said.

‘Naething,’ answered Mac, and refused to be drawn into further conversation.

Within half an hour she was back, flushed and bright of eye.  She had on a pink print, crisp and fresh, a flowery hat, gloves carefully mended, neat shoes and transparent stockings.

‘By Jings, ye’re dressed to kill at a thoosan’ yairds!’ Willie observed.

Ignoring him, she looked anxiously for the other’s approval.

‘D’ye like hot pies?’ he inquired, rising and stretching himself.

An hour later, in the picture house a heartrending, soul thrilling melodrama was at its last gasp.  The long suffering heroine was in the arms of the long misjudged, misfortune-ridden, but ever faithful hero.

‘Oh, lovely!’ murmured Maggie.

Macgregor said nothing, but his eyes were moist.  He may, or may not, have been conscious of a plump, warm, thinly-clad shoulder close against his arm.

Hero and heroine vanished.  The lights went up.  Macgregor blew his nose, then looked past the fat girl to make a scoffing remark to Willie.

But Willie’s seat was vacant.

* * * * *

Maggie laid her ungloved hand on the adjoining seat.  ‘It’s warm,’ she informed Macgregor.  ‘He canna be lang awa’.’

‘Did he no say he was comin’ back?’ Macgregor asked rather irritably.

’He never said a word to me.  I didna notice him gang:  I was that ta’en up wi’ the picturs.  But never heed,’ she went on cheerfully; ‘it’s a guid riddance o’ bad rubbish.  I wonder what’s next on the prog——­

‘But this’ll no dae!  He—­he’s your frien’.’

‘Him!  Excuse me for seemin’ to smile.  I can tell ye I was surprised to see a dacent-like chap like you sae chummy wi’ sic a bad character as him.’

‘Aw, Wullie Thomson’s no near as bad as his character.  A’ the same, he had nae business to slope wi’oot lettin’ us ken.  But he’ll likely be comin’ back.  We’ll wait for five meenutes an’ see.’

Maggie drew herself up.  ’I prefer no to wait where I’m no welcome,’ she said in a deeply offended tone, and made to rise.