Macgregor regarded his mother almost as in the days when he addressed her as ’Maw’—­yet not quite.  There was a twinkle in his eye.  Evidently she had clean forgotten he had grown up!  Possibly she detected the twinkle and perceived her relapse, for she went on quickly—­

’Though dear knows hoo Mistress McOstrich can afford to gi’e a pairty wi’ her man’s trade in its present condeetion.’

‘She’s been daft for gi’ein’ pah-ties since ever I can mind,’ Mr. Robinson put in, ‘an’ the Kaiser hissel’ couldna stop her, Still, Macgreegor, she’s an auld frien’, an’ it wud be a peety to offend her.  Ye’ll be mair at hame there nor ye was at yer Aunt Purdie’s swell affair.  Dod, Lizzie, thon was a gorgeous banquet!  I never tasted as much nor ett as little; I never heard sich high-class conversation nor felt liker a nap; I never sat on safter chairs nor looked liker a martyr on tin tacks.’

Macgregor joined in his father’s guffaw, but stopped short, loyalty revolting.  Aunt Purdie had meant it kindly.

‘Tits, John!’ said Lizzie, ‘ye got on fine excep’ when ye let yer wine jeelly drap on the carpet.’

’Oho, so there was wine in ’t!  I fancied it was inebriated-like.  But the mistak’ I made was in tryin’ to kep it when it was descendin’.  A duke wud jist ha’e let it gang as if a wine jeelly was naething to him.  But, d’ye ken, wife, I was unco uneasy when I discovered the bulk o’ it on ma shoe efter we had withdrew to the drawin’ room——­’

’Haud yer tongue, man!  Macgreegor, what nicht ‘ll suit ye?’

‘If ye say a nicht, I’ll try for it; but I canna be sure o’ gettin’ a late pass.’  He was less uncertain when making appointments with Christina.

And Mr. Robinson once more blundered and caused his son to blush by saying:  ‘He wud rayther spend the evenin’ wi’ his intended—­eh, Macgreegor?’

‘But she’s to be invited!’ Lizzie cried triumphantly.  ’So there ye are!’

‘Ah, but that’s no the same,’ John persisted, ‘as meetin’ her quiet-like.  When I was courtin’ you, Lizzie, did ye no prefer——­’

Lizzie ignored her man—­the only way.  ’What aboot Friday, next week?’

‘If we’re no in Flanders afore then,’ reluctantly replied the soldier of seven weeks’ standing.

* * * * *

Happily for Mrs. McOstrich’s sake Macgregor was able to keep the engagement, and credit may be given him for facing the wasted evening with a fairly cheerful countenance.  Perhaps Christina, with whom he arrived a little late, did something to mitigate his grudge against his hostess.

Mrs. McOstrich was painfully fluttered by having a real live kiltie in her little parlour, which was adorned as heretofore with ornaments borrowed from the abodes of her guests.  Though Macgregor was acquainted with all the guests, she insisted upon solemnly introducing him, along with his betrothed to each individual with the formula:  ‘This is Private Robi’son an’ his intended.’