As she entered, he came towards her, and in a moment his quiet hand
closed upon hers. Her father went out in search of her mother and they
were alone.
"What a collection of beautiful things you have here!" he said.
She looked at him, met his steady eyes, and suddenly some force of speech
broke loose within her; she uttered words wild and passionate, such as
she had never till that moment dreamed of uttering.
"Oh, don't talk of them! Don't think of them! They suffocate me!"
She saw his face change, but she could not have analysed the expression
it took. He was silent for a moment, and in that moment his fingers
tightened hard and close upon her hand.
Then, "I have brought you a small offering on my own account," he said in
his courteous, rather tired voice. "May I present it? Or would you rather
I waited a little?"
She felt the tears welling up, swiftly, swiftly, and clasped her throat
to stay them. "Of course I would like it," she murmured almost
inarticulately. "That--that is different."
He took a small, white packet from his pocket and put it into the hand he
had been holding, without a word.
Dumbly, with quivering fingers, she opened it. There was something of
tragedy in the silence, something of despair.
The paper fluttered to the ground, leaving a leather case in her grasp.
She glanced up at him.
"Won't you look inside?" he said gently.
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