"Oh, you mean sell my—my diamonds?" cried the lovely widow, with a little nervous sob, and instantly her two white hands went up to her ears, covering the blazing gems from his sight, while a painful flush leaped to her brow and lost itself beneath the soft rings of her burnished hair.
"Yes," pursued Mr. Cutler, wondering at her confusion. "If I am any judge, they are very valuable stones, and I suppose you might realize a handsome sum upon them."
He was secretly planning to redeem them and restore them to her later, if she should favorably regard his suit.
"But—but;" and her confusion became intensified a hundred-fold, "they aren't real. I'd be glad enough if they were, and would willingly sell them to cancel my indebtedness, but they are only paste, although an excellent imitation."
Her companion regarded her with astonishment.
"You surely do not mean that?" he exclaimed, "for if I ever saw pure white diamonds, those which you wear are certainly genuine."
"No, they are not," she returned, shaking her head with a positive air. "I am very fond of diamonds and I had some very nice ones once, but they were stolen from me just after my husband died. I could not afford to replace them, just then, and I had these made to wear until I could do so. They were made in Paris, where they are very clever at such work. I hoped when my husband's estate was settled, I could have some real stones again; but, of course, I cannot now," she regretfully concluded.
"Will you allow me to examine them, please?" Mr. Cutler asked, still sure that the stones were genuine.
Mrs. Bently unhesitatingly removed one of the crescent ornaments from her ear and laid it in his hand.
He examined it critically and was still confident that it was really composed of precious gems. He believed that if she had had them made to order to replace the stolen ones, either the jeweler had been guilty of a wretched blunder, or else some friend had interposed to replace the jewels which she so regretted.