“Yes,” she answered, with the dawn of a smile.
“Till the next time, anyhow,” continued Lambert, still holding her hand in one of his, and fumbling in his breast pocket with the other. “And now, look here what I brought you to try and make up to you for nearly drowning you.” He gently pulled her hand down from her eyes, and held up a small gold bangle, with a horse-shoe in pearls on it. “Isn’t that a pretty thing?”
Francie looked at it incredulously, with the tears still shining on her eyelashes.
“Oh, Mr. Lambert, you don’t mean you got that for me? I couldn’t take it. Why, it’s real gold!”
“Well, you’ve got to take it. Look what’s written on it.”
She took it from him, and saw engraved inside the narrow band of gold her own name and the date of the accident.
“Now, you see it’s yours already,” he said. “No, you mustn’t refuse it,” as she tried to put it back into his hand again. “There,” snapping it quickly on to her wrist, “you must keep it as a sign you’re not angry with me.”
“It’s like a policeman putting on a handcuff,” said Francie, with a quivering laugh. “I’ve often seen them putting them on the drunken men at Dublin.”
“And you’ll promise not to chuck over your old friends?” said Lambert urgently.
“No, I won’t chuck them over,” she replied, looking confidingly at him.