Horace followed.
The night before they had been on the verge of a love scene, now it seemed impossible, incongruous. Horace was full of tender longing, but he felt that to gratify it would be to pass the impossible.
“Please be very still,” whispered Rose, when they had reached the house door. She herself began opening it, turning the knob by slow degrees. All the time she was stifling her laughter. Horace felt that the stifled laughter was the main factor in prohibiting the love-making.
Rose turned the knob and removed her hand as she pushed the door open; then something fell with a tiny tinkle on the stone step. Both stopped.
“One of my rings,” whispered Rose.
Horace stooped and felt over the stone slab, and finally his hand struck the tiny thing.
“It's that queer little flat gold one,” continued Rose, who was now serious.
A sudden boldness possessed Horace. “May I have it?” he said.
“It's not a bit pretty. I don't believe you can wear it.”
Horace slipped the ring on his little finger. “It just fits.”