Annabel’s hand rested on the stone railing and Gordon took it, looking full into her eyes.
“Shall I put it on?” he asked.
She looked from the ring to his face—her cool fingers trembling in his.
“Yes,” she answered, and he slipped it on her finger.
The noise of the departing carriage-wheels had scarce died away when Sheridan entered the library, whither Gordon had preceded him. He was tittering inordinately.
“I’ve been trying to find Cassidy,” he said, “but he’s gone. Went and got his horse while Hobhouse was fiddling. Poor doctor! If he’d only been a parson!”
“Look, look!” cried Gordon. He was pointing to the window.
Sheridan stared. The unwavering moonlight fell on the image of Vesta—no longer marble-white. The ink-well Gordon had hurled through the window had struck full on its brows, and the clear features and raiment were blackened and befouled with a sinister stain!