‘Jewels!’ he cried, with a laugh. ‘How should a pauper give jewels to the proprietress of flourishing tin mines? That would be taking diamonds to Golconda.’
She tore open the package with a puzzled look.
It was a small octavo volume, bound in ivory, with an antique silver clasp, and Justina’s monogram in silver set with rubies—a perfect gem in the way of bookbinding.
‘Do not suppose that I esteem the contents worthy the cover,’ said Maurice, laughing. ‘The cover is a tribute to you.’
‘What is it, Maurice?’ asked Justina, turning the book over and over, too fascinated with its outward seeming to open it hastily. ‘A Church Service?’
‘When one wants to know the contents of a book one generally looks inside.’
She opened it eagerly.
‘A Life Picture! Oh, how good of you to remember that I liked this poem!’ cried Justina.
‘It would be strange if I forgot your liking for it, dearest. Do you remember your speculations about the poet?’
‘Yes, dear, I remember wondering what he was like.’