I pulled from my pocket the little ring which I had had with me that night when I drove out to Elmhurst in my carriage, the one with the single gem which I had obtained hurriedly that afternoon, having never before that day had the right to do so. In another pocket I found the plain gold one which should have gone with the gem ring that same evening. My hand trembled as I held these out to her.
"I prove to you what I meant. Here! I had no time! Why, Elisabeth, I was hurrying—I was mad!—I had a right to offer you these things. I have still the right to ask you why you did not take them? Will you not take them now?"
She put my hand away from her gently. "Keep them," she said, "for the owner of that other wedding gift—the one which I received."
Now I broke out. "Good God! How can I be held to blame for the act of a drunken friend? You know Jack Dandridge as well as I do myself. I cautioned him—I was not responsible for his condition."
"It was not that decided me."
"You could not believe it was I who sent you that accursed shoe which belonged to another woman."
"He said it came from you. Where did you get it, then?"
Now, as readily may be seen, I was obliged again to hesitate. There were good reasons to keep my lips sealed. I flushed. The red of confusion which came to my cheek was matched by that of indignation in her own. I could not tell her, and she could not understand, that my work for Mr. Calhoun with that other woman was work for America, and so as sacred and as secret as my own love for her. Innocent, I still seemed guilty.
"So, then, you do not say? I do not ask you."
"I do not deny it."