Barclay drew back as if struck. “Acquaintances?” he repeated. “Ah, no, never. Say friends, Ethel”—and neither noticed the use of her first name.
“Well, friends,” Ethel’s voice shook a trifle, and she strove to change the conversation. “Your ring is too large.”
“But it can be made smaller,” quickly. “See, it is too tight for me,” indicating his little finger and the redness of the skin where the ring had been.
Ethel leaned forward and glanced at the strong slender fingers spread wide before her. “You have the hand of a surgeon,” she remarked. “Why have you stopped wearing the ring on your right hand?”
“How can you tell that?” and Barclay scrutinized her keenly.
“By the worn circle around the little finger of the right hand.”
Barclay bent nearer. “If that is an indication, I must find out how many you are accustomed to wear,” he announced, and Ethel laughed softly.
“I never wear rings,” spreading her fingers. “See, no marks.”
“But you will wear mine?” insistently, and then as her face paled, he added more lightly, “On humanitarian grounds.”
“I don’t catch your meaning?” in puzzled surprise.