He caught her plump arm.  ’Wha said ye wasna welcome?  Eat yer sweeties an’ dinna talk nonsense.  If ye want to see the rest o’ the picturs, I’m on.  I’ve naething else to dae the nicht.’

After a slight pause.  ‘Dae ye want me to bide—­Macgreegor?’

‘I’m asking ye.’

She sighed.  ‘Ye’re a queer lad.  What’s yer age?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘Same as mines!’ She was twenty-two.  ‘When’s yer birthday?’

‘Third o’ Mairch.’

‘Same again!’ She had been born on the 14th of December.  ’My! that’s a strange dooble coincidence!  We ought to be guid frien’s, you an’ me.’

‘What for no?’ said Macgregor carelessly.

Once more the house was darkened.  A comic film was unrolled.  Now and then Macgregor chuckled with moderate heartiness.

‘Enjoyin’ yersel’?’ she said in a chocolate whisper, close to his ear.

‘So, so.’

‘Ye’re like me.  I prefer the serious picturs.  Real life an’ true love for me!  Ha’e a sweetie?  Oh, ye’re smokin’.  As I was sayin’, ye’re a queer lad, Macgreegor.’  She leaned against his arm.  ’What made ye stan’ me a slider, an’ a champion tea, an’ they nice sweeties, an’ a best sate in a pictur hoose—­when ye wasna extra keen on ma comp’ny?’

‘Dear knows.’

She drew away from him so smartly that he turned his face towards her.  ‘Oh, crool!’ she murmured, and put her handkerchief to her eyes.

‘Dinna dae that!’ he whispered, alarmed.  ‘What’s up?’

‘Ye—­ye insulted me.’

‘Insulted ye!  Guid kens I didna mean it.  What did I say?’

‘Oh, dear, I’ll never get ower it.’

’Havers!  I’ll apologize if ye tell me what I said.  Dinna greet, for ony favour.  Ye’ll ha’e the folk lookin’ at us.  Listen, Mary—­that’s yer name, is’t no?’

‘It’s Maggie, ye impiddent thing!’

’Weel, Maggie, I apologize for whatever I said, whether I said it or no.  I’m no ma usual the nicht, so ye maun try for to excuse me.  I certainly never meant for to hurt yer feelin’s.’

She dropped the handkerchief.  ‘Ha’e ye got a sair heid?’

‘Ay—­something like that.  So let me doon easy.’

She slid her hand under his which was overhanging the division between the seats.

’I’m sorry I was silly, but I’m that tender-hearted, I was feart ye was takin’ yer fun aff me.  I’m awfu’ vexed ye’ve got a sair heid.  I suppose it’s the heat.  Ony objection to me callin’ ye Macgreegor?’

‘That’s a’ richt,’ he replied kindly but uneasily.

Her fingers were round his, and seemingly she forgot they were there, even when the lights went up.  And he hadn’t the courage —­shall we say?—­to withdraw them.

The succeeding film depicted a throbbing love story.

‘This is mair in oor line,’ she remarked confidentially.

Every time the sentiment rose to a high temperature, which was pretty often, Macgregor felt a warm pressure on his fingers.  He had never before had a similar experience, not even in the half-forgotten days of Jessie Mary; for Jessie Mary had not become the pursuer until he had betrayed anxiety to escape from her toils.  And he had been only seventeen then.