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.

The warm pressure made him uncomfortable, but not physically
so--and, apart from conscience, perhaps not altogether spiritually
so. For, after all, it's a very sore young manly heart, indeed,
that can refuse the solace, or distraction, offered in the close
proximity of young womanhood of the Maggie sort and shape. In
other words, Macgregor may have been conscientiously afraid, but he
had no disposition to run away.


About nine-thirty they came out. While he looked a little dazed
and defiant, she appeared entirely happy and self-possessed, with
her hand in his arm as though he had belonged to her for quite a
long time. But at the gorgeous portals she stopped short with a
cry of dismay. It was raining heavily.