“I rather fancy a solitaire,” protested Timothy, mildly. “Let’s see yours, Pats!”
With a sublime indifference Patsy took off her glove. “It is rather a good solitaire,” she admitted, negligently.
“Would you take it off a minute, madam? I should like to compare——”
“Oh, no—that is, I mean”—Patsy blushed furiously—“I have never taken that ring off—I—but I suppose I might just as well, now,” she concluded, defiantly.
“Why not?” agreed Timothy—who was only a writer.
“I prefer not to take that ring off here,” said Patsy, with a colossal dignity. “I—we will look at what you have in circlets.”
“Certainly, madam.” The clerk’s sandy head sank into a blue plush show-drawer.
“There’s Laura Hastings!” cried Patsy, suddenly, “with a man—looking at rings. And she never even hinted——! Do wait, Timothy. I must speak to her a minute. Just like a gossipy person—never to tell one thing about themselves!”
“Yes,” coming back breathlessly. “It’s true. They’re engaged. Laura said”—Patsy’s breezy voice grew somewhat dry—“it was seeing me so happy in my lovely home that really decided her—of course on top of that I could hardly tell her—umm!” as the clerk reappeared. “Perhaps, after all, a solitaire would be better—Laura’s getting one, and people might say——” the minute the words were out, Patsy glanced fearfully at Timothy; but Timothy was deep in settings. “Her friends might think,” amended Patsy, “that you ought to have given Doromea one. Is Doromea as pretty as she used to be?” she added, irrelevantly.
“She may sometime have been as pretty as she is now,” Timothy meditated, “but it seems hardly probable. As a Plain Person—she wants you to show her about things next winter,” he branched off. “The house and that, you know. Anne and Michael are going to stay on in the country, so——”