Oh, Ernestine--you're a
woman! I was mortified to death at the theatre. You didn't look at the
play at all. You just sat and looked down at that ring. Oh, I saw through
that thing of not being able to fasten your glove!"
She was twisting her hand about to show off the stone--any woman of any
land who has ever owned a ring knows just how to do it.
"See, dear!" she laughed exultantly, "it _is_ fire! You can see things in
it just as you can in the coals."
But he was not looking at the ring. There were things to be seen in her
face and he was looking at them. He loved this child in her. Was it in
all women when they love, he wondered, as many other men have wondered of
other women, or was it just Ernestine?
"It was a dreadful thing for you to get it," she scolded,--these
affectionate scoldings were a great joy to him. "It's a ridiculous thing
for a poor college professor--that's you--to buy a ruby ring. Why, rubies
exist just to show millionaires how rich they are! And it's a scandalous
thing for a poor man's wife--that's I--to be wearing a real ruby!" Then
her other hand went over the ring, and clasping both to her breast she
laughed gleefully: "But it's mine! They'll not get it now!"
"Who wants it, foolish child?" he asked, pressing her head to his
shoulder and holding the ring hand in his.
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