“And now—and now,” she cried.
“And now, my dearest, you remember the ring that I put upon your finger?”
“This ring? Do you think it likely that I have forgotten it already?” she whispered.
“No, no, dearest; it was I who forgot it,” he said. “It was I who forgot that my father and my sister are perfectly certain to recognize that ring if you wear it at Abbeylands: they will be certain to see it on your linger, and they will question you as to how it came into your possession.”
“Of course they will,” she said, after a pause. “You told me that it was a ring that belonged to your mother. There can only be one such ring in the world. Oh, they could not fail to recognize it. The little chubby wicked Eros surrounded by the rubies—I have looked at the design every day—every night—sometimes the firelight gleaming upon the circle of rubies has made them seem to me a band of blood. Was that the idea of the artist who made the design, I wonder—a circle of blood with the god Eros in the centre.”
She had taken off her glove, and had laid the hand with the ring in one of his hands.
He had never felt her hand so soft and warm before. His hand became hot through holding hers. His heart was beating as it had never beaten before.
The force of his grasp pressed the sharply cut cameo into his flesh. The image of that wicked little god, the son of Aphrodite, was stamped upon him. It seemed as if some of his blood would mingle with the blood that sparkled and beat within the heart of the rubies.
He had forgotten the object of his mission to her. Still holding her hand with the ring, he put his arm under the sealskin coat that reached to her feet, and held her close to him while he kissed her as he had never before kissed her.
Suddenly he seemed to recollect why he was with her. He had not hastened down from London for the sake of the kiss.