"I couldn't take one unless you offered it," she said. There were thoughts behind his eyes; he seemed to waver, and she steadied her own face for fear of doing the one thing that would not move him. Now she did not pray: she had a dread of asking for herself, lest God, in punishment, should grant the prayer and let worse follow. Escape was only to be made through a door of George's opening, and she knew he would never let her through, but she looked at the clouds and waited for him to speak. His words were heralded by guttural noises in his throat. "I want you," he said at last, with the simplicity of a desire for bread. "And there isn't any need to wait. I'm going to town today. I'll see about it. In three weeks--" She said nothing; she was still watching the clouds; they were like baskets overbrimming with heaped snow. He came nearer. "I'm going to get a ring. And, after all, we needn't wait three weeks. I'll get a licence. What kind of ring?" Zebedee's ring was hanging on a ribbon round her neck, and she put a hand to her throat and pressed the hard stones against her skin. "I suppose one has to have a wedding ring." "I meant--another kind," he said. "Is it worth while for such a little time?" she asked and did not look at him. "There's afterwards." "Yes. There's afterwards." She might have been lingering on the words with love, but suddenly she rose and stamped a foot as though to crush them, and cried out, "I will have no ring at all! Neither one nor the other!" "You can't get married without a ring," he said stupidly. It pleased him to see her thus: she was less distant from him. "Very well. Marry me with one. I will not wear it afterwards." "I don't care about that," he muttered. He was looking at her, peering in the half-blind fashion he used towards her. "Helen--I was awake half the night." She stared at him. It would not have troubled her if he had never slept again. It was absurd of him to think she cared whether he slept or waked. "Thinking of you--" he added, and seemed to wait for some reward. "I am going in," was all she said. "Not yet. That's all you ever say to me. I wish you'd have a ring." "But I will not!" "Something, then," he begged. "What do such things matter?" she cried, and hated her ungraciousness as she heard it. "If it will make you happy," she conceded. "Good-bye, George. The doctor will soon be here, and there is everything to do." "Aren't you going to let me in?" "Oh, yes." She passed into the house and up the stairs, and she did not look back to see if he had followed.