"Oh, yes," interrupted Becky, with a satirical smile, "that's what's made the colors so fine, I suppose."
"Becky, do not taunt me," Mr. Ricketty answered, reproachfully. "This is a sad hour to me. What'll you give for it?"
"Where did it come from?" asked Becky, shrewdly. "We like to know what we're doing when we buy pearl necklaces at retail."
"It was my mother's," replied Mr. Ricketty, touching his handkerchief to his eyes. "When she breathed her last she placed these pearls about my neck. 'Stephen,' she said, 'keep them for my sake.'"
Becky hesitated. Not that she was at all impressed with this story of how the necklace came into Mr. Ricketty's possession. She was fully alive to the risk she ran in entering into any bargain with gentlemen of Mr. Ricketty's appearance, but the luster of the pearls burned in Becky's eyes.
"Well," she said, with a vast assumption of indifference, "I'll give you fifty dollars for them."
Mr. Ricketty cast forth at her one long, scornful look and then started to go out.
"Oh, well," she called after him, "I'll be liberal. I'll make it a hundred."
"No, Becky, you wont. You'll not get that glorious relic for the price of a champagne supper. I will die. I will take my pearls and go and jump off the bridge, and together we'll float with the turning tide out into the blue sea. Adieu, Rebecca, so beautiful and yet so cold, adieu! How could Heaven have made thy face so fair, thine eyes so full of light, thy ruddy lips so merry, but thy heart so hard! I press thy hand for the last time, fair Rebecca—"
"Well, I like that," cried Becky; "seeing that it's the first. You're very gay for a man of your years, and you'd best keep your fine words for them that wants 'em,—I don't"; and Becky withdrew her hand, detaining, however, the pearls within it.