“Excuse my shaking hands,” she said. “This damned hole is like a furnace; I have to make up fresh after each act.”
She held them up for my inspection with a laugh; they were smeared with grease.
“D'you know my husband?” she continued. “Baron G—; Mr. Paul Kelver.”
The Baron rose. He was a red-faced, pot-bellied little man. “Delighted to meet Mr. Kelver,” he said, speaking in excellent English. “Any friend of my wife's is always a friend of mine.”
He held out his fat, perspiring hand. I was not in the mood to attach much importance to ceremony. I bowed and turned away, careless whether he was offended or not.
“I am glad I saw you,” she continued. “Do you remember a girl called Barbara? You and she were rather chums, years ago.”
“Yes,” I answered, “I remember her.”
“Well, she died, poor girl, three years ago.” She was rubbing paint into her cheeks as she spoke. “She asked me if ever I saw you to give you this. I have been carrying it about with me ever since.”
She took a ring from her finger. It was the one ring Barbara had worn as a girl, a chrysolite set plainly in a band of gold. I had noticed it upon her hand the first time I had seen her, sitting in my father's office framed by the dusty books and papers. She dropped it into my outstretched palm.
“Quite a pretty little romance,” laughed the Baron.