“By asking for it.”
“On what grounds?”
“That I lost the ring the night of their first dinner-dance.”
Marjorie’s scornful regard swept him from head to foot.
“Too flimsy,” she commented. “I have been fooled by you once too often.”
Between rage and passion Barnard’s habitual self-control forsook him. Catching her hand he forcibly closed her fingers over the ring.
“It’s yours, yours—do you hear!”
“No, no,” she retreated several steps from him, and he followed her, his face alight with passion.
“My own darling!”
But she struck down his encircling arm, and fled back into the drawing-room.