Meanwhile, Florrie, trembling and intense, had produced her ticket. The young man took it in a perfectly ordinary way. Mary realised suddenly that he was accustomed to pawn-tickets.
"Thirty-five bob," he said.
Mary looked at him with astonishment. She would hardly have been surprised if he had asked for so many pounds. Florrie at her side gave a little soft sob of agonised suspense—Florrie was wondering whether it was too much.
Mary put back the cheque-book she had been innocently taking from her bag, and brought out the necessary money. As she put it on the counter Florrie caught hold of Miss Percival's arm to steady herself. The assistant was gone now and the shop was spinning round Florrie in circles of yellow light. There was a fine dancing halo, especially, obscuring the door through which he had disappeared.
He was not away long, and when he came back he was unwrapping a little parcel. Florrie, shaking all over, held out her hand for it. Inside the parcel was a leather case; the young man, as he handed it to Mary, opened it.
There lay the bracelet. Not even a lady, Florrie felt, could deny its glories. It was a golden snake with a beautiful pattern of scales on its back, and in his eyes there sparkled two small diamonds.
"A pretty thing," said the young man, in a sociable tone. "Real gold, nine carat." Before he had finished Florrie was out of the shop and Mary was obliged to follow her without replying. It was a corner shop, and Florrie had turned into the little side street instead of the busier way by which they had come. As Mary came out she saw that the fair young man was staring into the window of a tobacconist next door. When he saw Florrie coming he hesitated and then stepped forward to meet her with a nervous smile.—"So you've got it—" he was beginning, but she did not let him finish. "Take that, you muck!" she said, and threw it at him. Then she turned her back on him with a laugh of triumph.
The little man did not seem to have felt the leather case which had hit him on the chin. For a moment he stood still, staring after Florrie, then, suddenly, he pulled his cuff across his eyes.
"She's gone!" he said to himself, and when he raised his head, Mary, disgusted, could see that he was crying.
The little man did not mind Mary. He cried for a little and wiped his eyes again, and then stooped to pick up the bracelet that had fallen out of the case at his feet. He did not look at it, but slipped it into his pocket, and then walked away down the street, still sniffing. He was a miserable little man; Mary, immorally, felt sorry for him.