"I do not commiserate her in that she will be your wife, my lord, but in that she hath no place in your affections. Your wife—ah, sir, the theatre grows something close, and my head throbs piteously."
The smile faded from her face, and her long lids drooped.
"Give me that flower from your lace," she whispered, "and go. You must go!"
She rested her head against the side of the box, and her lashes showed dark yet gleaming against her smooth pale cheeks.
"I cannot give you that," answered my lord, "for it hath touched one I degraded, lain next a fellow I treated carelessly."
She did not move, speak, or raise her eyes, but her whole slight body quivered and trembled with her breathing.
"This is for you," said Rose Lyndwood, under his breath, and faintly. "When I was a child I loved it; it seemed to me sacred. I—I did not understand it, and so I kept it hidden; it hath been secret all my life because of this. Will you take it?"
She looked, and her eyes were drenched with tears; it was a small white shell with a smooth pink lip that lay on my lord's palm. She did not put out her hand, and he placed it on the edge of the box.
Then she took it up.