"It's difficult, Dauvit. I haven't got enough evidence. However I
think I can make a good guess."
"Weel?"
"Mary and Willie sat in the same class at school?"
"Good!" said Dauvit, "they did."
"And Mary was Willie's first sweetheart?"
"Imphm!"
"Mary loved Willie and he loved her. They were sweethearts for a long
time, but another damsel came and stole Willie's heart away. Mary wept
bitter tears, but in time she repressed her love . . . and it changed
into hate."
Dauvit chuckled.
"A very nice story," he said, "but, ye ken, it's just a story. You
cudna guess the real reason why Mary hated him so much."
"Then what was the real reason, Dauvit?"
He laughed.
"Mary hated Willie Murray because he aince telt her that she was a
silly woman to think that she cud wear a number fower shoe on a number
acht foot."
We laughed together, and then I said:
"Dauvit, why did you never marry? You like women I fancy."
My remark made him thoughtful.
"Man," he said, "I've often speered the same question o' mysel. As a
young man I was gye fond o' the lassies, but . . . I dinna ken!" and
he broke off suddenly and took up a boot. "Thae soles are just paper
noo-a-days," he growled.