His hands still held hers. She dropped her eyes to them, and suddenly, very suddenly, she bent her head and kissed them.
He started slightly, and in a moment he set her free, leaving the case in her hold. "Eh bien!" he said lightly. "That is understood. You like my pearls, chérie?"
"I love—anything—that comes from you," she made low reply. "But these—but these—I ought not to take these."
"But why not?" he questioned. "May I not make you a present? Are you not—my wife?"
"Yes." More faintly came Toby's answer. "But—but—but—a wife is different. A wife—does not need—presents."
"Mais vraiment!" protested Saltash. "So a wife is different! How—different, mignonne?"
He tried to look into the downcast eyes, but she would not raise them. She was trembling a little. "Such things as these," she said, under her breath, "are what a man would give to—to—to the woman he loves."
"And so you think they are unsuitable for—my wife?" questioned Saltash, with a whimsical look on his dark face.
She did not answer him, only mutely held out the case, still without looking at him.
He stood for a second or two, watching her, an odd flame coming and going in his eyes; then abruptly he moved, picked up the pearls from their case, straightened them dexterously, and clasped them about her neck.