"Right," I said.
For three days I wandered past gold-and-silversmiths with the ring in my pocket ... and for three days Celia went about without a wedding-ring, and, for all I know, without even her marriage-lines in her muff. And on the fourth day I walked boldly in.
"I want," I said, "a wedding-ring engraved," and I felt in my pockets. "Not initials," I said, and I felt in some more pockets, "but—but——" I tried the trousers pockets again. "Well, look here, I'll be quite frank with you. I—er—want——" I fumbled in my ticket-pocket, "I want 'I love you' on it," and I went through the waistcoat pockets a third time. "I—er—love you."
"Me?" said the shopman, surprised.
"I love you," I repeated mechanically. "I love you, I love you, I—— Well, look here, perhaps I'd better go back and get the ring."
On the next day I was there again; but there was a different man behind the counter.
"I want this ring engraved," I said.
"Certainly. What shall we put?"
I had felt the question coming. I had a sort of instinct that he would ask me that. But I couldn't get the words out again.
"Well," I hesitated, "I—er—well."