“Yes,” said Sophia. “It is very beautiful.”
“Yours also is beautiful,” said Laurence, with an extremely puzzling intonation.
“It is just the ordinary English wedding-ring,” said Sophia. In spite of herself she blushed.
“Now I have married you. It is I, the cure, said he—the cousin—when he put the ring on my finger. Oh, he is excessively amusing! He pleases me much. And he is all alone. He asked me whether I knew among my friends a sympathetic, pretty girl, to make four with us three for a picnic. I said I was not sure, but I thought not. Whom do I know? Nobody. I’m not a woman like the rest. I am always discreet. I do not like casual relations.... But he is very well, the cousin. Brown eyes.... It is an idea—will you come, one day? He speaks English. He loves the English. He is all that is most correct, the perfect gentleman. He would arrange a dazzling fete. I am sure he would be enchanted to make your acquaintance. Enchanted! ... As for my Charles, happily he is completely mad about me—otherwise I should have fear.”
She smiled, and in her smile was a genuine respect for Sophia’s face.
“I fear I cannot come,” said Sophia. She honestly endeavoured to keep out of her reply any accent of moral superiority, but she did not quite succeed. She was not at all horrified by Laurence’s suggestion. She meant simply to refuse it; but she could not do so in a natural voice.
“It is true you are not yet strong enough,” said the imperturbable Laurence, quickly, and with a perfect imitation of naturalness. “But soon you must make a little promenade.” She stared at her ring. “After all, it is more proper,” she observed judicially. “With a wedding-ring one is less likely to be annoyed. What is curious is that the idea never before came to me. Yet ...”
“You like jewellery?” said Sophia.
“If I like jewellery!” with a gesture of the hands.
“Will you pass me that bracelet?”