"What ring? What do you mean?"
"The ring Mrs. Willis asked you to return to her. You did not return it, because you had not got it You would have returned it if you had it—you are not the girl to care enough about rings just to keep it for the sake of wearing it. I know what has happened—you have sold or pawned the ring."
"How can you know?" exclaimed Annie, in a voice almost of fear; "how is it possible for you to tell? You don't know anything whatever about me—how can you tell?"
"Intuition," replied Antonia, in a light voice. "I can see farther than most people when I choose to see. Intuition and experience. Do you imagine that I, in my chequered career, have never had to part with a jewel. Once, when in Paris, I sold my hair. I had no money to buy canvas and colours, so I went to a barber, and he cut it quite short and gave me a napoleon for it. Ah! that nap, that darling nap, how I loved it!"
"You are a very queer girl," said Annie.
"That's neither here nor there," replied Antonia. "I didn't take you away from the others to speak of myself. I have watched you since I came here, and I can see that you are a very bright, clever girl; also, that you are pretty, according to modern ideas. You are not true art, by any means; but what of that? I know that you are in trouble about that ring, so you may as well confide in me."
"But will you tell?" asked Annie.
"Tell!" said Antonia, with scorn. "I don't ask for confidences to repeat them again—that is not Antonia Bernard Temple. Art is my mistress—art exacts both truth and fidelity from her disciples. You need not fear that I will tell."
"You are a queer girl," replied Annie. "I'm sure you will not tell. Yes, I am in trouble about the ring, and I don't mind confiding the trouble to you."