He did not give the same impression of furtiveness and wasted pallor that Pearl had gained when she had caught a glimpse of him on the steps. No one could say he had a color, but he was distinctly less corpselike. There was nothing shabby about him now either. He was very well dressed in a dark morning suit; his boots, his tie, the wrist watch which he kept glancing at as if his time was rather short, were all of the most elegant sort.
"No, my dear," he went on, "you ought to welcome me most cordially, for I have come to make you a present—quite a present." And fishing languidly in his pocket he produced the string of pearls.
"A present!" cried Edna. "Those are my pearls!"
"They are now," said her husband politely, "because I have made up my mind to give them to you."
"You gave them to me originally—they were always mine."
Conway shook his head a number of times.
"So you have always said, Edna; but saying a thing over and over again does not make it any truer. I did not give them to you——"
"You did," said Edna.
"Ah, Edna," he answered sadly, "how you can take the grace out of life! You can make even the present of a splendid string of pearls seem ungracious. I never gave them to you. I let you wear them while you were my wife—a mistake, for when you ceased to be my wife you would not give them back—natural, but hardly honest."