He drew from a pocket of the overcoat he still had on, a satin case and laid it on the table, watching Frances with keen delighted eyes. The mouth was drooping a little now, the cheek paling, there was even a suspicion of tears about the lowered lids.
"Are you not going to look?" he asked softly as he touched the spring and threw back the lid.
Frances scarcely turned her head, though the sparkle under the electric light was magnetic. The young man made a step closer to her, put his hand upon her shoulder as if to turn her face toward the table; but Frances shrank back into the chair close by and hid her face against the cushions.
All her anger, her jealousy, were but a part of her own wretched self, and he was innocent, her generous heart accused; she was shamed to the quick.
But Lawson had no key to this. He was genuinely frightened, and quick as the fear was the old ungovernable will to win. He knelt by her, striving to pull her hands from her face, whispering all the endearing words he could muster.
He cursed his folly and the insanity that had beset him. He knew, why had he ever thought of it lightly, that she was the one thing the world held for him desirable. He was wild with fear. He would try one other way.
"Frances," he pleaded finally, as he got to his feet, "if you do not look at me, speak to me, I shall—I shall know you do not wish to at all," his voice was as firm as he could command it.
And Frances stumbling to her feet with face averted, held out her hands.
It was many minutes later that he began to talk to her of the jewels. They were magnificent. Frances' simplicity was affrighted. It was a part of his composite nature to remember her with passionate devotion while he was outwardly forgetful and to search for the finest gems he could find.
"I can never wear them," faltered Frances.