“Ah, yes! My mother did too, but—excuse me, they lacked the real artistic temperament. People with real artistic temperaments invariably tangle their silks, if only for the joy of seeing the glorious mass of colour they make matted together. Of course, if they chance to possess an idle friend, whose hands are itching for work—”
“May I? Oh, that’s splendid. I have a passion for unravelling string. This will keep me quiet for quite a long time. Tell me what colour you want next, and I’ll coax him out!”
“Green; blue. A strand of each. If you like to experiment you can try untwisting them, and mixing the shades.”
Cassandra stitched on, a smile on her lips, but Dane, having extracted the desired threads with unexpected ease, was too much engrossed in watching to make any further effort on his own account. The graceful, wholly feminine pose was another picture to add to the mental gallery. His eyes followed the sweep of the right hand, and he said involuntarily:
“That’s a beautiful ring! I noticed it the first time I played bridge with you. I’ve never seen you without it. It’s the most beautiful ring I have ever seen.”
She stayed her work to turn her hand and look at the ring with a scrutinising glance. “Yes; it’s a good stone. I like it too. It was my mother’s,” she said calmly. There was no consciousness in her face of the beauty of the hand itself. The thoughtful look was the result of a puzzling question. As Peignton’s admiration for emeralds was so great, why had he not given one to his fiancée instead of the orthodox row of diamonds? As though one personal remark called forth another, she turned suddenly to him and asked, “How did you fall yesterday? Everyone told a different tale. Were you really climbing over the rockery?”
“I was. I’m afraid I did some damage to the bulbs as well as myself, but you had told me that the saxifrages were partial to boots. I thought I was perfectly safe. I was, until by bad luck I stepped on to one of those big—er—”
“Clinkers?”
“Clinkers—yes! that’s it, and it rolled over and brought me with it, with my foot twisted beneath me.”
“It had probably been put in this year. The old, moss-covered stones are safe enough. I’m sorry if I misled you. What did you want to do?”