"Who gave you that?" he asks, suddenly. It is to a jealous eye rather a lovable little ring.
"Papa, when I was fourteen," says Monica. "It is very pretty, isn't it? I have felt quite grown up ever since he gave me that."
"Monica," says Brian Desmond suddenly, tightening his hold on her hand, "had you ever a lover before?"
"Before?"
"Yes," slowly, and as if determined to make his meaning clear, and yet, too, with a certain surprise at his own question. "Had you?"
"Before?" as if bewildered, she repeats the word again. "Why, I never had a lover at all!"
"Do not say that again," says Brian, moving a step nearer to her and growing pale: "I am your lover now—and forever!"
"Oh! no, no," says Monica, shrinking from him. "Do not say that."
"I won't, if you forbid me, but," quietly, "I am, and shall be, all the same. I think my very soul—belongs to you."
A crunching of gravel, a sound of coming footsteps, the murmur of approaching voices.