Ma said B’God she should marry some childe, fair going to waste, a lassie like her. And Chris asked who she should marry—Mr Piddle? and Ma gave a snort, she’d said marry, not martyr, he’d never get up from the marriage bed.

Chris said she thought that was fair indecent, drinking tea and pulling a long face; and Ma shook her meikle red face at her, Life was damn indecent as both of them knew. The first time she’d lain with a man, her Jim, she couldn’t make up her mind to be sick or to sing. But there was more of the singing than sickness for all that, even though it felt awful like going to bed and being cuddled by a herring-creel, not a man. But mighty, a lassie when she was a lass just bubbled for a childe to set her on fire. But now they were all as hard and cold and unhandled as a slab of grey granite in a cemetery. Look at that teacher-creature, Miss Johns, whipping in and out the house like a futret, with books and papers and meetings to attend, never a lad to give her a squeeze. Chris said You don’t know, she’s maybe squeezed on the sly, Ma said Not her, she’d freeze up a childe. Not but she isn’t bonny in a kind of a way, though I never could stick they black-like jades with a bit of a mouser on the upper lip.

Chris thought of the faint, dark down on the lip of a downbent face, and the long lashes, curled, soft and tender, blue in the sun. And she said that she thought it rather bonny, and Ma said Bonny? You’ve an awful taste. Though the Cushnie and Clearmont think the same, they near eat her up at breakfast time. I suppose the most of the queans about are all such a pack of scrawny scans that a sleek pussy-cat like our Really-Miss-Johns just sets a childe fair a-tingle to stroke her.

Chris had noticed how Ellen woke up the breakfast, though she herself didn’t seem to know it, canty and trig, with her braided hair and her cool, blue eyes, John Cushnie would pass the marmalade, and blush, and habber a bit of English, making an awful mess of it above his tight-tied tie, Mr Clearmont would give his cheerful guffaw and fix his round baby eyes on this titbit—Coming to the Saturday Match, Miss Johns, Students and Profs, it’ll be great fun? And Miss Johns would shake her head, Too busy, and Archie’s face would fall with a bang. Even Mr Quaritch forgot his books, the pussy-cat had snared him as well, he’d waggle his thin little beard at her and tell her stories of the Daily Runner, and start to explain the Douglas Scheme, the Only Plan to Save Civilization by giving out lots and lots of money to every soul whether he worked for’t or not. Who would be such a fool as work at all then? Miss Johns would ask, but she’d ta’en it up wrong, Mr Quaritch would marshal bits of bread to prove the Scheme again up to the hilt, and Miss Johns would say it sounded great fun, she knew there was Relativity in physics, this was the first time she’d met it in maths. Mr Piddle would say, He-he! Fine morning. And how is Miss Johns today, yes—yes? And Feet the Policeman would curl his mouser, a Sergeant, and give her a bit of a stare like a cod that wanted its teeth in a cat, instead of the other way round, as was usual. Chris would smile at the coffee-pot and meet Ellen’s eyes, demure blue eyes with an undemure twinkle.