“Doubtless you are right. But”—and she held up the lovely head—“this is not quite so common, and—and—I think I'll take the Macedon one. Yes, you may set that for me,” turning to the salesman.
“Diamonds or pearls?” asked the jeweler.
“Oh, dear, no!” exclaimed the girl; “just the head.”
Evelyn's education was advancing. For the first time in her life she had something to conceal. The privilege of this sort of secret is, however, an inheritance of Eve. The first morning she wore it at breakfast Mrs. Mavick asked her what it was.
“It's a coin, antique Greek,” Evelyn replied, passing it across the table.
“How pretty it is; it is very pretty. Ought to have pearls around it. Seems to be an inscription on it.”
“Yes, it is real old. McDonald says it is a stater, about the same as a Persian daric-something like the value of a sovereign.”
“Oh, indeed; very interesting.”
To give Evelyn her due, it must be confessed that she blushed at this equivocation about the inscription, and she got quite hot with shame thinking what would become of her if Philip should ever know that she was regarding him as a stater and wearing his name on her breast.
One can fancy what philosophical deductions as to the education of women Celia Howard would have drawn out of this coin incident; one of them doubtless being that a classical education is no protection against love.