She said nothing; she was still watching the clouds; they were like baskets overbrimming with heaped snow.
He came nearer. "I'm going to get a ring. And, after all, we needn't wait three weeks. I'll get a licence. What kind of ring?"
Zebedee's ring was hanging on a ribbon round her neck, and she put a hand to her throat and pressed the hard stones against her skin.
"I suppose one has to have a wedding ring."
"I meant—another kind," he said.
"Is it worth while for such a little time?" she asked and did not look at him.
"There's afterwards."
"Yes. There's afterwards." She might have been lingering on the words with love, but suddenly she rose and stamped a foot as though to crush them, and cried out, "I will have no ring at all! Neither one nor the other!"
"You can't get married without a ring," he said stupidly. It pleased him to see her thus: she was less distant from him.
"Very well. Marry me with one. I will not wear it afterwards."