"How sweet of you," I murmured. But when I unwrapped the packet, I was dumbfounded. It was a beautiful mother-of-pearl cigar case, mounted in silver, and set with an elaborate monogram in small diamonds. "Why, child!" I exclaimed in protest.
"It was my father's," she explained. "It was a presentation thing,--he was always getting them. You see, he was always doing splendid things for people. I like to remember that he was that kind of a man."
"But shouldn't it go to Gene?"
"No, he gave it to me for my very own, because I was so proud of it. I want you to have it,--to remember me by."
"I'm not going to forget you,--ever," I said, taking both her hands in mine. Forget her! I realized at that moment that I had taken her for granted as belonging in my life permanently. I simply could not imagine having her go out of it. The idea raised a queer sort of tumult within me.
"Then you will take it," she said, again pressing the case upon me. "Because I want you to have it,--I want you to."
"I am very proud to have it," I said gravely. To refuse that urgent voice, those beseeching eyes, would have been impossible. I'm not a graven image. She beamed at my acceptance. It was exactly like a rain-drenched flower lifting its head again.
"And I want a good-bye present from you to me, too," she said with a sort of breathless haste, leaning toward me in her eagerness.
"A 'good-bye' present! Why, my going away is not serious enough for all that ceremony. I shall be back before you really know that I have gone."
"But you'll give me something, won't you?" she persisted, putting my disclaimer aside. "Some little thing, you know! Your pencil, or something like that."