Jill gave a quiet laugh.
“My dear old boy,” she said, “you must allow me a say in that matter if you please. I wouldn’t let you have a haberdashery; I’d sooner that you were a pork butcher at once.”
“No good,” he answered. “I’ve thought of that too; but I couldn’t kill a pig for love or money. I could measure out a yard or two of ribbon though, and sell worsted stockings to old women. I say, Jill, what do you think of a photographic studio?—That’s the next best thing to art.”
Jill had a fine contempt for photography, and said so, but St. John was rather taken with the new idea, and as he pointed out while he did the mechanical work she could paint portraits and enlargements, and have a kind of Art Gallery as well. He spoke with a cheery confidence that showed that he fully expected her to fall in with his plan immediately and be struck as he was with the brilliance of the idea. But for once Jill’s spirit seemed to have deserted her, and she turned away with a catch in her voice, and quite a forlorn expression in the grey eyes which a moment ago had been smiling into his.
“Oh, Jack, don’t!” she cried. “I can’t bear to listen to you. My poor old saint, I wish that you had never met me.”
“Stop that,” commanded St. John sharply. “You make me feel such a beastly cad—the son of a beastlier cad—”
She turned and laid her hand upon his lips, shaking her head at him reprovingly.
“Your language isn’t fit for a stable,” she said in her elder sister, teacher-to-pupil tone. “I can’t have you calling people names here. Besides what I said need not have excited your risability like that. I meant it in all sincerity; it is a pity as things have turned out; I was quite happy here working by myself, and got along fairly comfortably, and I think now that we have had our pleasant fooling and the crisis is reached I should like to offer you your freedom.”
“Thank you,” he answered grimly, and he stood looking down from his six feet of brawny manhood upon the small determined figure in front of him busily engaged in withdrawing the ring—her sole article of jewellery—from the third finger of her left hand. She held the shining circlet, emblem of their mutual love, towards him with a smile upon her lips, but he made no attempt to take it though he understood the significance of her action well enough.
“Wouldn’t you like to keep it to wear on the other hand?” he enquired sarcastically. “It isn’t etiquette, I know; but ladies do it sometimes, I believe.”