It was only an exclamation, and it had escaped Clifford almost involuntarily, but it expressed a great deal, and his heart had given a great throb of exultation over the knowledge that what his blue-eyed, golden-haired divinity had refused to give the rich and aristocratic Philip Wentworth, she had, freely, and even enthusiastically, bestowed upon him, a poor bound boy, who had stood before her, hatless and drenched to his skin in his shirt-sleeves and overalls and wearing a pair of clumsy shoes, the like of which this petted son of fortune would have scorned for his servant.
Young Wentworth was excessively nettled by the monosyllable, and instantly regretted having betrayed so much.
“I am only telling you this,” he hastened to explain, “to prove how preposterous it seems in you to claim that this lady should have given you the ring, after having refused it to me, and I will also add, as a clincher, that Miss—the lady is my fiancée.”
For a moment Clifford felt as if he had been struck a blow in the face, and the sense of a terrible loss settled upon his heart. Then, as he recalled the youthful face that had been lifted so earnestly to him, and also the fact that the girl had not discarded short dresses, a faint smile of skepticism involuntarily curved the corners of his mouth. Philip was quick to note it, and was exasperated by it.
“You do not believe it,” he said sharply, “but it is true nevertheless; the matter was arranged when we were mere children, and we have grown up with the understanding that we are to be married when I am through college. Faugh!” he interposed, with a shrug of impatience, “why do I tell you this, I wonder? I am a fool to give it away to you; but, Faxon, I want that ring! Do you hear?”
Clifford gazed down upon the handsome, imperious face upturned to him with an expression of amazement. The audacity of the demand almost paralyzed him for the moment.
“You want the ring!” he repeated, when he could find voice.
“That’s what I said,” Philip returned consequentially. “I can’t have you wearing a ring that belongs to my fiancée. Of course, I am willing to pay you something handsome for it rather than have any words over the affair—say, fifty dollars, and ask no further questions regarding how you came by it.”
Clifford was filled with indignation, both at the imputation flung at him and the proposition to barter his gift for money. Sell his precious ring—his “mascot,” with its magic legend and initials of its fair donor! Never! He would almost as soon have parted with his right hand, and he grew very white about the mouth at the thought. But he seldom gave outward expression to anger, no matter how deeply moved he was, and, after a moment spent in making an effort to speak calmly, he said, in a low tone of quiet decision: