“Virginia, I got the letters you sent me,” he said in a low voice. “The reason I didn’t return yours was—I burned them one night in Paris just before—”
He stopped, unable to go on, red in the face; but she was quite calm. His very embarrassment steadied her.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’m glad you spoke, because I wanted to give you this.” She held out her hand with the ring in her palm. “I know it belonged to your grandmother. I was afraid to trust it to the mails. Here it is, William.”
He held out his hand stiffly, without looking at her, and Virginia had to put the ring into it.
“Thank you,” he said in a low voice.
Then he looked in a dazed way at the ring lying in his hand. The color slowly receded from his flushed face and left it pale. He remembered the day he had put it on her finger!
So did she; but Virginia was a brave woman. She could not help seeing his face, and, being a woman, she knew. She could shape the whole story easily now. She had heard rumors of Mr. Carter’s wrath at Fanchon’s dance, and she knew what William must have felt. The talk must have reached him. This was the recoil. She loved him, and she understood. It would have tempted another woman; it frightened Virginia. She tried to think of something to say, but she could not.
They sat silently, the shade of the horse-chestnut stretching over them. Beyond them the sun shone on the old lawns and flower-beds. They were so motionless that a robin, searching for worms, came almost up to their feet.
“Do you mind my sitting around here?” he asked again in a low voice. “It’s the most restful place I’ve found.”
She steadied her voice.