XVIII
Gordon Makimmon made one step toward her. Lettice held the box in an extended hand:
“Gordon,” she asked, “what was this for? It was in the clothes press last evening: it couldn’t have been there long. You see—it’s a little jewellery box from the post-office; here is the name on the lid. Somehow, Gordon, finding it upset me; I couldn’t stop ’til I’d seen you and asked you about it. Somehow there didn’t seem to be any time to lose. I asked for you last night in the village, but everybody had gone to the sap-boiling ... I sat up all night ... waiting ... I couldn’t wait any longer, Gordon, somehow. I had to come out and find you, and everybody had gone to the sap-boiling, and—”
“Why, Lettice,” he stammered, more disconcerted by the sudden loss of youth from her countenance than by her words; “it wasn’t—wasn’t much.”
“What was it, Gordon?” she insisted.
Suddenly he was unable to lie to her. Her questioning eyes held a quality that dispelled petty and casual subterfuges. The evasion which he summoned to his lips perished silently.
“A string of pearls,” he muttered.
“Why did you crush the pretty box if they were for—for me or for your sister, if it was to be a surprise? I can’t understand—”