Cicely, slowly, pale and gentle of face, came across the wide hall and into the room. She stopped then, hands hanging at her sides, her head bent forward a little, glancing from one to the other.
She looked unexpectedly frail. Henry knew, as his eyes dwelt on her, that she, too, was suffering.
She seemed about to speak; but instead threw out her hands in a little questioning gesture and raised her mobile eyebrows. But she didn't smile.
Henry glanced again at Madame. She was re-reading the Galbraith letter. He waited for her to look up.
Then, all at once, he knew that she meant not to look up. Youth is unerringly keen in its own interest. She was evading the issue. He had beaten her.
He dropped the little box on a chair; stepped forward, ring in hand. He saw Cicely gazing at it, fascinated.
Then his own voice came out—a shy, even polite, if breathless, little voice:—
'I was just wondering, Cicely, if you'd let me give you this ring.'
She lifted very slowly her left hand; still gazing intently at the ring.
He held it out.