The very thought of the fellow in that connection made me angry in her interest; and with a mischievous intention of spoiling his sport if he hovered, as I fancied, in the neighbourhood, or at least of delaying his happiness as long as I could, I kept the conversation going very blithe indeed. She had a laugh, low and brief, and above all sincere, which is the great thing in laughter, that was more pleasant to hear than the sound of Earn in its tinkling hollow among the ferns: it surprised me that she should favour my studied and stupid jocosities with it so frequently. Here was appreciation! I took, in twenty minutes, a better conceit of myself, than the folks at home could have given me in the twelve months since I left the college, and I'll swear to this date 'twas the consciousness of my fancy shoes that put me in such good key. She saw my glance to them at last complacently, and pretended herself to notice them for the first time. She smiled--little hollows came near the corners of her lips; of a sudden I minded having once kissed Mistress Grant's niece in a stair-head frolic in Glasgow High Street, and the experience had been pleasant enough. “They're very nice,” said Isobel. “They're all that,” said I, gazing boldly at her dimples. She flushed and drew in her lips. “No, no!” I cried, “'twas not them I was thinking of; but their neighbours. I never saw you had dimples before.” At that she was redder than ever. “I could not help that, Paul,” said she; “they have been always there, and you are getting very audacious. I was thinking of your new shoes.” “How do you know they're new?” “I could tell,” said she, “by the sound of your footstep before you came in sight.” “It might not have been my footstep,” said I, and at that she was taken back. “That is true,” said she, hasty to correct herself. “I only thought it might be your footstep, as you are often this way.” “It might as readily have been David Borland's. I have seen him about here.” I watched her as closely as I dared: had her face changed, I would have felt it like a blow. “Anyway, they're very nice, your new shoes,” said she, with a marvellous composure that betrayed nothing. “They were uncle's legacy,” I explained, “and had travelled far in many ways about the world; far--and fast.” “And still they don't seem to be in such a hurry as your old ones,” said she, with a mischievous air. Then she hastened to cover what might seem a rudeness. “Indeed, they're very handsome, Paul, and become you very much, and--and--and--” “They're called the Shoes of Sorrow; that's the name my uncle had for them,” said I, to help her to her own relief. “Indeed, and I hope it may be no more than a by-name,” she said gravely.