And then he was shrinking back from the window at the sight of Ellen; but she’d seen him; waved. And across his memory there swept again, picture on picture, an obscene film, something they’d stick in him while he writhed, a bobby’s hand—

Ewan!

He kept his face buried in his arms, feeling her arms around him, tight, her hair against his cheek, shivering away from the touch of that. And he said to her Go away! and she wouldn’t, kept close to him, holding him, shaking him: Ewan, listen, you’re to tell me what’s wrong with you —what I’ve done that you avoid me like this. Ewan, do you hate me so much and so suddenly?

He told her he didn’t hate her at all, it was just that he was white-livered, he supposed. And sat up and pushed her away, not looking at her, looking a boy still, with the scar down his temple healed by now. Ewan scarred: last time it had been the keelies, this time the police: who next? and she shuddered as he himself had done. And then in the queerest fashion it came to her that she knew what was wrong, suddenly, she tingled with a blush that spread all over her body, neck, cheek and breast, goodness knew how far, a blush of unbearable shame and compassion: Oh Ewan, poor Ewan!

But she didn’t say that, crouched beside him with her chin in her hands looking at him and loving him so that she almost wept; and was desperate while her mind sought round and round for a way to get at him, to help him.

And slowly, with a queer unemotion, she realized the only way—if she’d take it for him.

He’d sat staring out of the window the while, now she ran to that window and pulled open the curtains and stared up at the sky. April was in, the weather would keep all day she thought: Ewan, what are you doing this weekend?

He said Nothing. Read a book. Hadn’t an idea.

—I want to go out a long ride on a bus. Somewhere. I get so sick of Duncairn. Will you come with me?

—Oh, if you like. I’ll be poor enough company.

She said she’d risk that, she’d go and find out about the buses. Would he be ready in an hour’s time?

It felt the most crowded hour of her life, dragging on her hat and running from the house down to the bus-stance in Royal Mile, long lines of buses like dozing dragons, the drivers yawning and staring at the sky, staring at newspapers, buses innumerable, with all signs on them: where would she go? Then she saw a bus with GLEN DYE upon it, and she’d never been there, it was safe enough. So she found out the time when the bus was to start, the conductor said in a fifty minutes—Don’t be late, are you bringing your lad? And Ellen said Quite and smiled at him, a bonny black pussy-cat of a creature, he straightened his tie and looked after her—’Od, keeks of that kind were unco scarce.