I turned my hand so that the light fell on the big, new diamond on my finger. Bill had bought it in Havana, two days after the fire. It was my engagement ring, he said, and I had gotten up more than once in the last few nights to admire it by candle or moonlight. It was like a drop of dew. I told him that when he gave it to me, and he had added "on a white flower," and had kissed the finger he slipped it on.
"Want Arthur? I think not. He'd be the scandal of Green Hill, and perhaps he'd not thrive away from Guayabal—"
"Shall I buy 'The Palms'?" asked Bill, pushing his cap back from his forehead, so that the sun fell across his face.
"Are you crazy?" I demanded.
"Possibly."
He slipped his hand under the rug across my knees and took mine.
"What do you think?" he asked, gravely.
"I think you are," said I. "Such extravagance! Delusions of grandeur. But, anyway, I'd rather we built our own house—"
"So would I," said Bill, with satisfaction.
"Couldn't we add to the Green Hill house?" I asked, "an office for you—and more rooms? Do you mind?" I said. "So much of me is in that house. I don't want to forget those years—. And I was born there. My Mother came there as a bride—and I think Father will want us to live there always—unless," I added careful, "you have other plans, Doctor Denton?"