"Come, girl," he said, going to her side; "you have something to tell me. What is it?"
She turned to find his hand outstretched and a friendly look in his eyes. Impulsively she gave him both her hands. He bowed over them with the grave air of the days of powdered wigs. There was not a particle of irony in the movement; rather it was a quiet acknowledgment that he recollected the good influence she had at times worked upon him in some dark days. As he brushed her fingers with his lips, he saw. His head came up quickly.
"Ah!"
"Yes." Her voice was steady and her eyes were brave.
He drew her to the lamp and studied the ring. The ruddy lights dartled as he slowly turned the jewel around.
"It is a beauty. No one but a rich man could have given a ring like that. And on your finger it means but one thing."
"I am to be married in June."
"Do you love him?"
"I respect him; he is noble and good and kind."
Warrington did not press the question. He still retained the hand, though he no longer gazed at the ring.