Josephine unhesitatingly laid her hand on his palm, her whole body thrilling as his fingers closed over it, and he bent his proud head to examine the ring.
She had had poor Star’s pin made into this ring, which she had worn a few times, and then tiring of it, had thrown it into her jewel-box, where it had lain unheeded until to-night, when a sudden whim had caused her to put it on.
“It is a very finely carved cameo,” he said, after a few moments, during which he had regarded it intently. “I once saw one so nearly like it that I do not think I could distinguish it from this. It belonged to—to a friend of mine, although that was in the form of a pin.”
“Was your friend a lady or gentleman?” Josephine asked, quickly, and not giving herself time to realize that she was betraying undue curiosity.
“A gentleman,” he returned, briefly.
“It is a pretty trifle which was given to me by a relative,” Josephine said, without even wincing at the lie, yet feeling guilty and uncomfortable to have the stone recognized.
“It is evidently quite a valuable cameo,” Lord Carrol returned, thoughtfully, “and the person of whom I spoke prized the one he had very highly, for he is something of an artist, and had it carved in Italy after a design which he made himself.”
“Indeed! Is your artist an Englishman?” Miss Richards asked, with downcast eyes, and more interested in this matter than she cared to appear.
“Yes; and his name is Sherbrooke—Archibald Sherbrooke,” Lord Carrol replied, while he regarded her intently.
Josephine started, and the color flamed into her face.