“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.
The day had the first rumour of spring: green shoots thrust among the bare bushes on the river side, and the smell of new turned soil came from a field where a plough had been feiring; above us the sky was blue, in the north the land was pleasantly curved against silver clouds.