“It is a lovely thing,” he continued, drawing it toward him again, and studying it attentively for the thousandth time. “The carving is particularly fine. Yes, I will wear it just for to-day.”
A few hours later Clifford was standing beneath a great tree on the campus conversing with one of his classmates. Almost unconsciously he had lifted his left hand, and laid it against the trunk of the tree. It was a firm, strong, shapely hand, and the costly circlet upon the fourth finger stood out conspicuously upon it.
He and his friend were absorbed in discussing some of the numerous events of the week, and were unaware of the presence of any one else, until they were startled by a voice close beside them, exclaiming with marked emphasis:
“By thunder!”
Both young men turned to find Philip Wentworth standing beside them and staring, with a look of blank astonishment and dismay on his face, at the ring upon Clifford’s finger.
“Well, Wentworth, what are you thundering about?” laughingly inquired Clifford’s companion, who was known as Alf Rogers, and was a prime favorite in the institution.
Without appearing to heed his question, Wentworth bent a flashing look upon Clifford.
“Where did you get that ring?” he demanded sharply.
Clifford flushed at his peremptory tone, and his hand involuntarily dropped to his side. But he immediately lifted it again, and held it before him, where all three could plainly see the gem he wore.
“Oh, this cameo?” he observed, his face softening to sudden tenderness, which did not escape his interlocutor, as he gazed upon it.