"I also paid the price of a gem," said I, "and thought I had it."
"And it proved a pebble?" said she, leaning over me; for I had seated myself in a chair, being in no mood for ceremony.
"Yes, a pebble; a very pebble, a common pebble."
"A common pebble!" she echoed. "Oh, Simon, cruel Simon! But a pretty bright pebble? It looked like a gem, Simon?"
"God forgive you, yes. In Heaven's name—then—long ago, when you came to Hatchstead—what then? Weren't you then——"
"No gem," said she. "Even then a pebble." Her voice sank a little, as though for a single moment some unfamiliar shame came on her. "A common pebble," she added, echoing my words.
"Then God forgive you," said I again, and I leant my head on my hand.
"And you, good Simon, do you forgive me?"
I was silent. She moved away petulantly, crying,