Ewan said with a laugh that Jim needn’t worry, rape Labour’s pouches, but not its wenches, he’d got that all fixed; well, so long, comrade. You’ll lead us out with the band tomorrow? And Trease said he would, and then So long, Ewan, and they shook hands, liking each other well, nothing to each other, soldiers who met a moment at night under the walls of a town yet unstormed.

The workmen from Murray’s Mart had come up and bade in the house all the afternoon tirring the rooms of their furniture. Chris had made the two men each a cup of tea, they’d sat in the kitchen and drank it, fell grateful: You’ll be moving to a smaller house, then, mistress? Chris said Yes, and leaving Duncairn, and the older man gave his bit head a shake when he heard the place she was moving to. He doubted she’d be gey lonely, like. He was all for the toun himself, he was.

Now, in the early fall of the evening, Chris went from room to room of the house, locking the doors and seeing the windows were snibbed up against the beat of the wind. The floors sent up a hollow echo to her tread, in Miss Murgatroyd’s room a hanky lay in a corner, mislaid, she’d be missing it the morn and maybe sending for it. She’d said Eh me, she was Such Sorry that the place was breaking up, but maybe for the best, maybe for the best, she’d be Awful Comfortable in her new place she was sure. And would Mrs Ogilvie take this as a Small Bit Present? And this for young Mr Ewan, if he’d have it?—two Awful Nice books about the ancient Scots, such powerful they were in magic, Mr Ewan had once read the books and So Liked them.

Chris closed that door and went ben the corridor, to Archie Clearmont’s, and peeped in a minute; he’d flushed, standing in that doorway, trunk behind him: I say, I’m damnably sorry to leave. Given you a lot of trouble, often. I say—and flushed again, looking at her. And Chris had known and smiled, known what he wanted, and kissed him, and watched him go striding away, and thought, kind, Nice boy; and forgotten him.

Nothing in here, nor in Mr Quaritch’s, except the pale patches along the walls where his books had rested, still the fug of his pipe. He’d said You were never meant for this, anyhow. Mind if I ask: Is your husband coming back? Chris had shaken her head and said No, they had separated, Ake was settling in Saskatchewan. And Neil had fidgeted and then proposed, she could get a divorce, he had some money saved, get a decent house and he wouldn’t much bother her. When she shook her head he gave a sigh: Well, luck go with you if you’re not for me.

Mr Piddle hadn’t bidden good-bye at all, he’d brought a cab and loaded in his goods, and gone cycling off in the rear of it, head down, neck out, without a He-he! And, queer, that had hurt Chris a bit she found—that the funny thing couldn’t have said good-bye. The cracked pane in his window was winking in the light from the lamps new-lit outside as she looked round his room; then closed it and locked it. That was the lot. Oh no, there was one.