There was scarcely a drapery warehouse in Argyle Street whose window did not attract her. Erchie never looked into any of them, but patiently stood apart on the edge of the pavement or walked slowly ahead. “Come here and see this at seevenpence three-fardens,” she entreated him. “It’s fine, a rale bargain; I wad tak’ that,” he replied, looking towards the window from afar off, and quite ignorant of what she alluded to, but determined not to be caught by any one who knew him as waiter or beadle, looking into a shop-window full of the most delicate feminine mysteries of attire. She went into the warehouse, while he walked on to the next shop--a cutler’s--and looked intently in at the window of it, as if he were contemplating the purchase of a costly pocket-knife with five blades, a corkscrew, and an appliance popularly supposed to be for taking stones out of a horse’s hoof. When he was joined by Jinnet, she had plainly begun to lose her nerve. “I’ve got gloves,” said she, “and a thing for Duffy’s lass, but they’re naither o’ them whit I was wantin’.” “Of course they’re no’,” said Erchie. “Ye’ve got a grate concait o’ yersel’ if ye think a puir auld body like you can get exactly whit ye want in yin o’ them warehooses wi’ the big turnover ye aye talk aboot. Was it a pe’erie and a fiddle ye wanted that made ye tak’ gloves?” “Oh! dinna bother me, Erchie; I canna help it; the lassies that serve ye in there’s that Englified and that smert that when they havena got whit I’m wantin’ I jist aye tak’ whit they can gie me.” “I’ve seen you in a big shop afore noo,” said her husband, “and I ken fine the wye ye aye spile yersel’ wi’ them Englified smert yins. Ye gang forrit to the coonter as if ye were gaun to ask if they had ony windows to clean, or back-stairs to wash oot, and ye get red in the face and tak’ yer money oot o’ yer pocket to show ye have it, and ye lauch to the lassie as if ye kent her fine, and ye say, ‘If you please’ to her; or, ‘Oh! it’s a bother to ye.’ That mak’s the lassie see at yince ye’re no’ cless; she get’s a’ the mair Englified, lettin’ on to hersel’ she’s the Duchess o’ Montrose, and can put the like o’ you in your place wi’ the least wee bit touch. That’s no’ the wye to dae in a shop o’ that kind. Ye should breenge up to the coonter, and cry ‘Gloves!’ as hard as Duffy cries ‘Coals!’ then sit doon withoot askin’ on a chair, and wi’ a gant noo and then watch them puttin’ oot gloves by the hunderwicht in front o’ ye, and them a’ in the shakers in case ye’ll no’ think they’re smert enough. “Dinna be blate; that’s my advice to ye. Talk Englified yersel’, and sniff wi’ yer nose noo and then as if ye felt a nesty smell in the place, and run doon the goods like dirt. Never let your e’e rest on the folk that serve ye, unless they happen to hae a shabby tie on or a button aff somewhere; glower at that, and it’ll mak’ them uncomfortable, and----