Horace looked. Only a few of the stones which Rose wore caught the moonlight to any extent, but she was all of a shimmer and gleam, like a creature decked with dewdrops.
“Look at me,” she whispered again.
“I am looking.”
“Do you see?”
“What?”
“They are poor Aunt Abrahama's jewels. Aunt Sylvia gave them to me. Aren't they beautiful? Such lovely, old-fashioned settings. You can't half see in the moonlight. You shall see them by day.”
“It is beautiful enough now,” said Horace, with a sort of gasp. “Those are pearls around your neck?”
“Yes, really lovely pearls; and such carved pink coral! And look at the dear old pearl spray in my hair. Wait; I'll turn my head so the moon will show on it. Isn't it dear?”
“Yes, it is,” replied Horace, regarding the delicate spray of seed pearls on Rose's head.
“And only look at these bracelets and these rings; and I had to tie the ear-rings on because my ears are not pierced. Would you have them pierced and wear them as they are—I believe ear-rings are coming into vogue again—or would you have them made into rings?”