“My wife?”
She starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response.
And how is she to give it, with least pain to him? Perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. So thinking, she says:—
“George, it can never be. Look at that!”
She holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels.
“At what?” he asks, not comprehending.
“That ring.” She indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word “Engaged.”
“O God!” he exclaims, almost in a groan. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
For a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad.