“But when you take off your glove everybody will know we’re not B. and G.,” he insisted.
She hesitated; a delicate flush crept over her face; then she nervously stripped the glove from her left hand and extended it. A plain gold ring encircled the third finger. “What shall I do?” she whispered. “I can’t get it off. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”
“Does it belong there?” he asked, seriously.
“You mean, am I married? No, no,” she said, impatiently; “it’s my grandmother’s wedding-ring. I was just trying it on this morning—this morning of all mornings! Think of it!”
She looked anxiously at her white fingers, then at him.
“What do you think?” she asked, naïvely; “I’ve tried soap and cold-cream, but it won’t come off.”
“Well,” he said, with a forced laugh, “Fate appears to be personally conducting this tour, and it’s probably all right—” He hesitated. “Perhaps it’s better than to wear no ring—”
“Why?” she asked, innocently. “Oh! perhaps it’s better, after all, to be mistaken for B. and G. than for a pair of unchaperoned creatures. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes,” he said, vaguely.
There came a gentle jolt, a faint grinding sound, a vibration increasing. Lighted lanterns, red and green, glided past their window.