"My eyes on your conscience! Oh—my eyes be hanged! Would I have my eyes back now?—to lose you! Oh, Gwen, Gwen!—sometimes the thought comes to me that if it were not for my privation, my happiness would be too great to be borne—that I should scarcely dare to live for it, had the price I paid for it been less. What is the loss of sight for life to set against...."
"Are you aware, good man, that you are talking nonsense? Be a reasonable Poet, at least!"
She was drawing her hand caressingly over his, and just as she said this, lifted it suddenly, with a start. "Your ring scratches," said she.
"Does it?" said he, feeling it. "Oh yes—it does. I've found where. I'll have it seen to.... I wonder now why I never noticed that before."
"It's a good ring that won't scratch its wearer. I suppose I was unpopular with it. It didn't hurt. Perhaps it was only in fun. Or perhaps it was to call attention to the fact that you have never told me about it. You haven't, and you said you would."
"So I did, when we had The Scene." He meant the occasion on which, according to Gwen's mamma, she had made him an offer of her affections in the Jacobean drawing-room. "It's a ring with magic powers—nothing to do with any young lady, as you thought. It turns pale at the approach of poison."
"Let's get some poison, and try. Isn't there some poison in the house?"
"I dare say there is, in the kitchen. You might touch the bell and ask."
"I shall do nothing of the sort. I mean private poison—doctor's bottles—blue ones with embossed letters.... You know?"
"I know. My maternal parent has any number. But all empty, I'm afraid. She always finishes them. Besides—don't let's bring her in! She has such high principles. However, I've got some poison—what an Irish suicide would consider the rale cratur—only I won't get it out even for this experiment, because I may want it...."