"A passport to your favor," says Chetwoode, smiling. "Though no one could help liking the boy." Then his eyes seeking her hands once more, fasten upon the right one, and he sees the ring he had placed upon the third finger a few hours before now glistens bravely upon the second.
The discovery causes him a pang so keen that involuntarily he draws himself up to his full height, and condemns himself as a superstitious fool. As if she divines his thought,—though in reality she knows nothing of it,—Lilian says, gazing admiringly at the glittering trinket in question:
"I think your ring grows prettier and prettier every time I look at it. But it would not stay on the finger you chose; while I was dressing it fell off; so, fearing to lose it, I slipped it upon this one. It looks as well, does it not?"
"Yes," said Chetwoode, though all the time he is wishing with all his heart it had not fallen from the engagement finger. When we love we grow fearful; and with fear there is torment.
"Why don't you ask Florence to sing?" asks Lilian, suddenly.
Archibald Chesney has risen and lounged over to the piano, and now is close beside her. To Guy's jealous ears it seems as though the remark was made to rid her of his presence.
"Because I detest French songs," he answers, somewhat sharply,—Miss Beauchamp being addicted to such foreign music.
"Do you?" says Lilian, laughing at his tone, which she fully understands, and straightway sings one (the gayest, brightest, most nonsensical to be found in her repertoire) in her sweet fresh voice, glancing at him with a comical challenge in her eyes every time the foolish yet tender refrain occurs.
When she has finished she says to him, saucily: