“She handed me a few shillings, by way of balance. I lived on them till they went. Then I starved a little.”
“With a ring on your finger you could have pawned for ten guineas!”
“Pawn my ring! My father gave it me.” She kissed it tenderly, yet, to Vizard, half defiantly.
“Pawning is not selling, goose!” said he, getting angry.
“But I must have parted with it.”
“And you preferred to starve?”
“I preferred to starve,” said she, steadily.
He looked at her. Her eyes faced his. He muttered something, and walked away, three steps to hide unreasonable sympathy. He came back with a grand display of cheerfulness. “Your mother will be here next month,” said he, “with money in both pockets. Meantime I wish you would let me have a finger in the pie—or, rather my sister. She is warm-hearted and enthusiastic; she shall call on you, if you will permit it.”
“Is she like you?”
“Not a bit. We are by different mothers. Hers was a Greek, and she is a beautiful, dark girl.”