“Real diamonds,” said Jane Kelly, feeling hastily in her pocket, and drawing out a paper box which she opened, “something like that, maybe.”
“Goodness gracious! where did you get it?” cried the girl, snatching at the diamond ear-ring, which flashed and quivered in the gas-light.
“At any rate, it’s my own and borrowed from no mistress, you may stake your life on that—so you see that I can cut a splash when I want to.”
“Let me see the other,” said Ellen, reaching forth her hand toward the box.
“Oh, they are exactly alike, of course,” answered Jane, crowding a tuft of pink cotton wool into the box; “mates, you know, and worth lots of chink.”
“How did you come by them? now, tell me.”
“Never you mind; they belong to me, and I can wear them before the Queen of England if I like.”
“Well, you have been lucky!”
“Some folks are lucky one way, and some another,—you are great on wine and aristocratic company—I—no matter about me,—I’m not good enough for these little swarrys.”
“Oh, but I didn’t say that. You always was a stylish girl, Jane, and those rings are sumpt’us. With them in your ears, and coming as my friend, what could be said agin you? Got other things to match, I dare say.”