"Why, do you want to see her? She'll be out all day. She's dining with the Willie Herricks."
"No, I don't want to see her, but, by the way, she's not dining with the Willie Herricks; she's dining with the Bullers. I heard her make the engagement yesterday."
"Oh, no, Harry, I'm sure you're mistaken."
"Well, it doesn't matter. All I want to know is, why did you show that ring to Clara before it was set?"
She was genuinely aghast. "I didn't," she flashed. "What made you think I had?"
He shrugged. "Well, she asked me where we got it. I don't see why women always talk those things over." He was looking at her inquiringly.
"Well, I haven't," she said quickly. "Have you?"
He looked out upon the fog. "Told her where we got it, do you mean? No, I just chaffed her. I'd look out, if I were you. She strikes me as damned curious." He stood a moment on the threshold, looking from Flora to the chasm of fog outside, as if he were choosing between two chances. "I think I'll take that ring this morning," he said slowly.
The deliberate words came to her with a shock. But in the moment, while she looked into Harry's moody face, she realized how impossible to make a scene over what must still be maintained as a trivial matter betwixt them—the mere resetting of a jewel; what should she do to put him off? She looked up at him, and saw with relief that his face was turned from her to the fog, as if he had forgotten her. Then, still with averted head, as if he addressed the whiteness, or himself,—"No," he determined, "I won't. I'll take it when I come back." He pulled himself together with an effort, with a smile. "That is," he turned to her, "if you're in no great hurry about the setting? Very well, then. In a day or two."
He plunged away into the fog. A few rods from the door he disappeared, but she could still hear his footsteps growing thinner, lighter, passing away in the whiteness.