He stood for a few moments looking at her in silence. She had on the dress which he loved so much, a silver-grey merino skirt and jacket, with a blouse of white pongee silk showing in front. Some lighter coloured trimming fringed the cloth. She wore a grey toque, with a dash of white at the side, and a white veil which softened without concealing the dark brown curls and fresh girlish face beneath it. Her gloves were of grey suède, and the two little pointed tan shoes peeping from the edge of her skirt were the only touches of a darker tint in her attire. Crosse had the hereditary artist’s eye, and he could only stand and stare and enjoy it. He was filled with admiration, with reverence, and with wonder that this perfect thing should really proclaim itself to be all his own. Whatever had he done, or could he do, to deserve it? She looked up at him in a roguish sidelong way, with the bright mischievous smile which was one of her charms. ‘Well, sir, do you approve?’ ‘By Jove, it is splendid—beautiful!’ ‘So glad! I hoped you would, since you are so fond of greys. Besides, it is cooler in this weather. I hope you have not been waiting.’ ‘Oh no, that’s all right.’ ‘You looked so solemn when first I saw you.’ ‘Did I?’ ‘And then you just jumped.’ ‘Did I? I’m sorry.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I don’t know. I like our feelings to be our very very own, and never to show them to any one else at all. I dare say it is absurd, but that is my instinct.’ ‘Never mind, dear, it wasn’t such a big jump as all that. Where are we going?’ ‘Come here, Maude, into the waiting-room.’ She followed him into the gloomy, smoky, dingy room. Bare yellow benches framed an empty square of brown linoleum. A labouring man with his wife and a child sat waiting with the stolid patience of the poor in one corner. They were starting on some Saturday afternoon excursion, and had mistimed their train. Maude Selby and Frank Crosse took the other corner. He drew a jeweller’s box from his pocket and removed the lid. Something sparkled among the wadding. ‘O Frank! Is that really it?’ ‘Do you like it?’ ‘What a broad one it is! Mother’s is quite thin.’ ‘They wear thin in time.’ ‘It is beautiful. Shall I try it on?’ ‘No, don’t. There is some superstition about it.’ ‘But suppose it won’t fit?’ ‘That is quite safe. I measured it with your sapphire ring.’ ‘I haven’t half scolded you enough about that sapphire ring. How could you go and give twenty-two guineas for a ring?—oh yes, sir, that was the price, for I saw a duplicate yesterday in the Goldsmith’s Company. You dear extravagant old boy!’ ‘I had saved the money.’ ‘But not for that!’ ‘For nothing half or quarter as important. But I had the other to the same size, so it is sure to fit.’