Yesterday the west had been a sea. To-day it was a city, a vast grey and violet city, with palaces and battlemented towers, and countless airy spires and pinnacles; and here, there, everywhere, its walls were gay with gold and crimson, as with drooping banners.
"'Tis a city en fête," said John. "'Tis the city where marriages are made. They must have one in hand."
"Hark," said she, putting up a finger. "There are your nightingales beginning."
But the raised finger reminded him of something. "Have you a rooted objection to rings?" he asked.
"Why?" asked she.
"I notice that you don't wear any."
"Oh, sometimes I wear many," she said. "Then one has moods in which one leaves them off."
"I have a ring in my pocket which I think belongs to you," said he.
"Really? I don't know that any of my rings are missing."
"Here it is," said he. He produced the little old shagreen case he had received from Lady Blanchemain, opened, and offered it.