“It does me good, my dears, to see you both real friends at last; and now let’s be sensible and chat together till I’ve finished these jools, and then we’ll have a nice strong cup of tea.”
Neither Claire nor Cora spoke, but sat with full hearts, and with a feeling of relief stealing over them as their hostess prattled on, opening case after case, and drawing the book to herself so as not to trouble Claire.
“Look at those, my dears; real choice pearls. Ain’t they lovely?” she said as she took out a ring from its tiny box. “They’re small, but they’re as good as good. Pearls always go best on dark people. Now just you try that on, Cora Dean, my dear. No; that finger’s a little too large, and that’s too small. That’s it to a T; just a fit.”
“It is beautiful,” said Cora, admiring the pearls. “Look, Claire.”
“Yes,” said Claire, smiling; “they are very beautiful.”
“Not as you want jools on you, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, “with a face, and rich red mouth, and throat, and hair, like you have. You want no jools to make you handsome as handsome can be.”
“Oh, yes, I do, Mrs Barclay; and I did not know that you had taken to flattery,” cried Cora, laughing.
“’Tain’t flattery, my dear, it’s truth,” said Mrs Barclay; “and I can’t say which is the handsomer—you or Claire Denville there—for you’re both right in your own ways. You neither of you want jools.”
“I do, Mrs Barclay, and I mean to have this ring if it is for sale. How much is it? It’s lovely.”
“It is for sale, my dear,” cried Mrs Barclay; “and you shall have it and pay for it.”