“That's very extravagant for rings,” said she. “January is diamonds.”
“Diamonds,” murmured the Virginian, more and more thoughtfully. “Well, it don't matter, for I'd not wear a ring. And November is—what did yu' say, ma'am?”
“Topaz.”
“Yes. Well, jewels are cert'nly pretty things. In the Spanish Missions yu'll see large ones now and again. And they're not glass, I think. And so they have got some jewel that kind of belongs to each month right around the twelve?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Henry, smiling. “One for each month. But the opal is what you want.”
He looked at her, and began to blush.
“October is the opal,” she added, and she laughed outright, for Miss Wood's birthday was on the fifteenth of that month.
The Virginian smiled guiltily at her through his crimson.
“I've no doubt you can beat around the bush very well with men,” said Mrs. Henry. “But it's perfectly transparent with us—in matters of sentiment, at least.”
“Well, I am sorry,” he presently said. “I don't want to give her an opal. I have no superstition, but I don't want to give her an opal. If her mother did, or anybody like that, why, all right. But not from me. D' yu' understand, ma'am?”