‘Why, indeed? It is folly to do so.’ On the occasional table at her elbow was a tiny gold-stoppered smelling-bottle, which she had placed there, together with her handkerchief, on entering the room. He went a step nearer and picked it up. ‘This is yours?’ he said interrogatively, as he opened the stopper and sniffed for a moment at the contents.
‘Yes, mine. Did you think it was milady’s?’ she asked, with a touch of her old bravado. She put out her hand, as if to take the bottle from Oscar; but next moment her hand itself was grasped by his sinewy fingers. She tried to draw it away, but could not.
‘And is this the hand, Estelle, that once on a time I used to vow was the prettiest hand in the world?’
A strangely frightened look had leapt all at once into her eyes. ‘And is it not a pretty hand still?’
‘It is a pretty hand. And is this the same ring that I slipped on your finger one sunny morning—ah! so many years ago?’
‘Of course it is the same ring, Oscar. As if I should ever wear another!’ It was all her trembling lips could do to syllable the words.
‘Ah, well, I suppose there is a great sameness about such articles.’
‘You hurt me, Oscar. You are cruel.’ She was trying her utmost, in a quiet way, to withdraw her hand; but she was like a child in his grasp.
‘I have no wish to be cruel, Estelle; but why do you struggle to withdraw your hand? Why do you keep it so tightly shut? What have you hidden inside it?’
‘Hidden! Nothing. What should I have to hide?’