Like a flash she remembered the cameo that he had given her as a souvenir, and a choking sensation came into her throat.
She knew by the way he was looking at her—by the way he had asked her if she “remembered”—that he was wondering if she had kept his gift as he had treasured that lock of silken hair.
There was not a piece of jewelry about her person, and he had remarked that fact the first time he met her there at the station.
Every article of her toilet was as dainty as it was possible to make it with her limited resources, and she looked every inch a lady; but it was not usual in those days to see a young girl of her age without the glitter of gold or tinsel somewhere about her.
“You have kept it all this time,” she said, scarce knowing what to say from embarrassment, while she wondered what she ought to tell him about the cameo.
“Certainly I have kept it all this time. I urged you to give it to me, and you do not suppose I was going to cast it lightly aside, do you?”
“Perhaps not,” she answered, with downcast eyes; “but I hardly thought you would keep it in—in such a way; and—oh I Mr. Sherbrooke, I have lost that lovely little cameo that you gave to me.”
She looked up at him now, and he noted the troubled, even pained expression that was in her eyes.
“Lost it!” he repeated; and although he did not intend it, his face clouded, whether from disappointment or some other feeling she could not tell.
She could not bear that he should know how she had lost it, and she felt that she was guilty of no untruth when she explained its absence thus.