She leaned over, holding her hand so close to the flame that he wondered at first what she was doing.
"See!" she cried, "see my ruby in the firelight, Karl! It's just a piece of it right up here on my hand!"
"And I suppose,"—seeming to be injured—"that during the remainder of my life, I may play second fiddle to that ring. Oh, Ernestine—you're a woman! I was mortified to death at the theatre. You didn't look at the play at all. You just sat and looked down at that ring. Oh, I saw through that thing of not being able to fasten your glove!"
She was twisting her hand about to show off the stone—any woman of any land who has ever owned a ring knows just how to do it.
"See, dear!" she laughed exultantly, "it is fire! You can see things in it just as you can in the coals."
But he was not looking at the ring. There were things to be seen in her face and he was looking at them. He loved this child in her. Was it in all women when they love, he wondered, as many other men have wondered of other women, or was it just Ernestine?
"It was a dreadful thing for you to get it," she scolded,—these affectionate scoldings were a great joy to him. "It's a ridiculous thing for a poor college professor—that's you—to buy a ruby ring. Why, rubies exist just to show millionaires how rich they are! And it's a scandalous thing for a poor man's wife—that's I—to be wearing a real ruby!" Then her other hand went over the ring, and clasping both to her breast she laughed gleefully: "But it's mine! They'll not get it now!"
"Who wants it, foolish child?" he asked, pressing her head to his shoulder and holding the ring hand in his.
She moved a little nearer to him.
"See some pictures for me in the fire," she commanded. "See something nice."