"It's a pleasant feeling to think that a lot of good fellows think you are a good fellow," said Mr. Magnet.
He became solicitous for her. How had she got on while he was away? She asked him how one was likely to get on at Buryhamstreet; monoplanes didn't fall every day, and as she said that it occurred to her she was behaving meanly. But he was going on to his next topic before she could qualify.
"I've got something in my pocket," he remarked, and playfully: "Guess."
She did, but she wouldn't. She had a curious sinking of the heart.
"I want you to see it before anyone else," he said. "Then if you don't like it, it can go back. It's a sapphire."
He was feeling nervously in his pockets and then the little box was in her hand.
She hesitated to open it. It made everything so dreadfully concrete. And this time the sense of meanness was altogether acuter. He'd bought this in London; he'd brought it down, hoping for her approval. Yes, it was—horrid. But what was she to do?
"It's—awfully pretty," she said with the glittering symbol in her hand, and indeed he had gone to one of those artistic women who are reviving and improving upon the rich old Roman designs. "It's so beautifully made."
"I'm so glad you like it. You really do like it?"
"I don't deserve it."