HAVING made my toilet, and put on my future tormentors, I set out for the residence of my friend. The arrival, salutations, announcement of dinner, etc., are matters of course--so I let them pass. In due time, I found myself walking into the _salon de manger_, with Miss L---- on my arm. A moment more, and I was seated at the table beside her. I did the duties that fell to me; said to my companion every pretty thing I could think of; sent her plate for some turkey; carved a chicken that stood before me, and offered the wing to the lady opposite; drank wine with my hostess, and procured some tongue for a lady on my left, who had no gentleman to take care of her. By the way, I wish she had eaten her own, considering the use she afterward made of it. In fine, my mind was so completely occupied by the pleasures of my situation, the few good things I said to my companion, and the many she said to me, that I was unconscious of the curse that from the first had been developing itself. Soon, however, I became aware that something prevented my being perfectly happy. I felt as one who, in the midst of a delightful dream, is assailed by a bed-bug--made conscious, merely, that there is some draw-back to his pleasure--something that prevents his giving himself entirely up to that perfect bliss which seems to beckon him to its embrace. A few moments more, and I was fully aroused. I found the instep of my right foot in a state of open rebellion against the strictures that had been laid upon it, and particularly against the act of close confinement. In truth, there was good reason; for the instep was the seat of intense pain. I drew it under my chair; but no rest for it was there. I thrust it back to its first place; still its anguish was unabated. In spite of myself, I became silent, and a shade passed over my face. The quick eye of my companion detected it, and fearing she had said something that had wounded me, began, with a kindness peculiar to herself, to apply a healing balsam. She had been speaking of an article in a late number of the _Knickerbocker_, and, in fact, commenting upon it with much severity. The thought seemed to flash on her mind that I was in some way interested--the author, perhaps, or a friend to the author. She passed to commendation. 'There were, notwithstanding, fine traits in the piece; redeeming qualities in spite of its imperfections. There was evidence of much talent--talent not all put forth,' etc. Dear girl! she mistook my disease. It was not my vanity that was wounded. My vanity was wounding me.[1] To gratify it, I had put on the tight boots; and now, like an undisciplined urchin, it had become the tormentor of its too indulgent parent.