“You will come home with me,” she urged. “I am alone, but what of that? Poor company will suffice one night. And to-morrow who knows? I may expect my husband home.”
“Your husband?” I queried.
She placed her hand on my arm and drew her lips close to my ear. Her eyes were laughing, and her voice.
She whispered lightly, “I think you are mistaking this for heaven.”
“That would be the greatest compliment,” I rejoined.
Her manner altered to one of sarcasm and scorn.
“If you esteem it so, why do you linger here?”
“That is an answer quite beyond me,” I made answer. “I think I linger here because I must.”
“Yes—as a prisoner,” she said slowly. “A much-prized prisoner, almost like a guest.”
We had reached the broad flight of steps that led toward the entrance. Here she stood still and took my left hand in her right, and with her other placed upon my finger a narrow circlet of blood-red stones. I looked at it with vain regret; to me there was no beauty in these gems. I remembered my own fair jewels and remorse more keen that I had felt before cut to my heart.