“If so, he’s not mean, anyway. I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll buy it back from you. It’s not right you should be defiled by wearing such a man’s ring.”
“He shall have it back—I’ll give it him.”
“No, my dear. What he has given, he has given. Thirty pounds.”
From his pocket he drew a small linen bag, from which he took eight or ten small nuggets. These he balanced in his palm.
“Seven ounces,” he said, contemplatively. “Say eight, to give you good value. That’s it, my dear.” With a bump he placed the gold on the table. “This ring is now mine. The work is of the best; never did I take more care or pride in my craft than when I set that stone. But it has been in the hands of a vile fellow; it is polluted.”
He rose from his chair, placed the jewel on the hearthstone, and fiercely ground the precious stone beneath his iron-shod heel, and flung the crushed and distorted gold setting into the fire.
“That you should have been so much as touched by such a man, is a thing not to be forgotten quickly.”
He drank the rest of his liquor at a breath.
“I must go, my dear. I must go.”
“What! won’t you stop? I want you to stay a little longer.”