“I always wore them at night until lately to keep them from dying. They are to be yours, of course. Put them on.”
Gita lifted the pearls over her head reverently, and ran to a mirror. “Are they really for me?” she gasped. “How can I thank you, grandmother! I never knew that pearls were beautiful before. But these! Mine!”
“Oh! You’re not a boy after all! Good.” Then as Gita frowned she added hastily, “Come back and lift out this tray.”
In the large compartment beneath was a heavy and hideous tiara of diamonds and emeralds. Mrs. Carteret sighed. “I suppose you’ll never wear it. I’m told such things are no longer in fashion. But many’s the time I wore it in the old Academy of Music—and in Covent Garden. Evelyn wore it in her day and was the most splendid figure in the Metropolitan Opera House. Her husband sent it back to me when she died. . . . Well, you can have the stones made into a necklace when you are older.”
“I? Am I to have all these wonderful jewels?”
“Who else? But you are not to sell them.”
“I’d never dream of selling them. When I’m blue I’ll just take them out and play with them.”
“That is the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say. And many are heirlooms, remember. . . . There was a magnificent diamond necklace your grandfather gave me, but it went to pay racing-debts after an unfortunate season at Saratoga. He was a good man, but insane about horses. I often feel thankful he died before this era of shrieking motors. They would have broken his heart. Sit down and play with these things now. I see they have cast a spell over you and I am beginning to feel hopeful.”
Gita took a low chair beside the bed and poured the contents of the upper tray into her lap, letting the chains run through her fingers, trying on the bracelets and rings. The fine stones seemed to wink at her knowingly.
“They’ll have to be reset,” said the old lady sadly. “Tout passé. Now,” she added briskly, “there’s another thing I want you to promise. If you don’t I’ll leave every one of these jewels to a hospital.”