“You’ve said that frequently since we got acquainted.”
“As I was saying, at my age, birthdays don’t seem so dreadfully important. But I congratulate you with all my heart,” he added sincerely, and with the touch of manner that was always charming in him.
“Thank you. And if you have—any gifts?”
He marveled at her. He had rarely seen her more cheerful, more mockingly herself; and he was proud of her. He had told her a few hours before that her father was a scoundrel, and she had left his house in a rage. She could now come back as though nothing had happened. She was a Merriam, he said to himself, and his heart warmed to her anew.
He drew out the drawer of his desk.
“Of course I haven’t any gift for you; but there’s some rubbish here—hardly worth considering—that I wish you’d carry away with you.”
He took out a little jeweler’s box and handed it to her.
“I’ve rarely been so perturbed,” she said. “May I open it now, or must I wait till I get home,—as they used to tell me when I was younger.”
“If you’re interested in an old man’s taste, you may open it. I’m prepared to see you disappointed, so you needn’t pretend you like it.”
She bent over the gift with the eagerness of a child, and pressed the catch. A string of pearls fell into her lap and she exclaimed over them joyously: