"I would not like to lose it now, it is older than you are, Amey," he observed, without changing his sonorous voice.
"Is it indeed?" I answered, not knowing what else to say.
"I lost it on the day of the Merivales' last 'At Home,'" he went on, as if talking to himself, "I had it when I came in here, and I missed it when I went out."
"You were not here on that day, were you?" I interrupted, impulsively, after which I could have bitten the end of my tongue off.
He was confused for a moment; it was the first time I had ever seen him in the least agitated, and in my curious astonishment I lost all self-control.
"I would remember if you had been here, for the day is clearly stamped in my memory: it was cold and stormy," I argued, warmly, "I don't think anyone went out of doors that could help it; it was drifting and blustering so."
"So it was," he answered, evasively, "what a good memory you have."
"For trifles—yes," said I, somewhat playfully. A pause ensued, during which he looked straight before him at the pattern on the carpet I twisted my rings abstractedly round my fingers, trying to think of something safe to talk about, when, to my surprise, he stood up abruptly before me, and held out his hand.
"It is growing late," he said, with a friendly smile, "and I must not detain you; this is," (and he took my timid fingers firmly in his own deep grasp) "good-bye, I suppose?"
His full gaze was upon me I could feel it I could see it even before I had raised my eyes.