"You must be mad," she faltered: "I can't accept presents from you. It's very kind of you—very generous—but it isn't possible."
He extended his hand an inch at the time. She laid them in the yellowish palm, and watched him slip them over the finger-nails that looked as if they were bruised. Her heart dropped heavily.
"It wasn't rude to offer them to you, was it?" he asked. "I didn't mean to offend you, you know."
"I'm not offended," she said. "But—but ladies can't take presents from men—not valuable presents, hundreds of pounds' worth of rings."
"Mustn't I give you anything?"
The rings magnetised her; she couldn't wrench her gaze from them.
"What for? Are you so sorry for me—the idiot who thought she could sing?"
"It's not that; it's nothing to do with your singing. Sweets? May I give you sweets?"
"I"—her eyelids fell—"I suppose so."
"What else?"