The hands were something to look at, in their glitter or strange old- fashioned rings, with many-coloured stones and various settings. Only a close observer would have noticed that the emerald alone was a fit. 'Every one of all the eight is a betrothal ring,' Hazel went on, not heeding; 'every one has been a token between people who chose each other from all the world. They were not all rich, you see,— here is a poor little silver hoop among the diamonds. And they were not all happy; for this ruby has seen a death-parting, and the pearls are not whiter than the face that had waited for twenty years. But not one ring has the stain of a broken troth, nor the soil of a purchase. The people suffered, they waited, they died,—but they never so much as thought of any one but each other, in all the world!' Wych Hazel folded her hands in her lap again, looking at Josephine with eyes that were all alight. 'But _that's_ yours,' Josephine went in impatiently. 'Who put it on?' The girl's accent was of more than curiosity. 'There are several of them you have never seen before,' said Hazel. 'Josephine, do you understand what I say to you? People starve to death upon diamonds.' 'Ah well, but do tell me!' said the girl, with a curious mixture of coaxing and distressful in her tone. 'Do tell me who it was, Hazel. I just want to know.' 'You just want shaking, I think,' said Wych Hazel. 'I did not say anybody put it there. And I thought you wanted to talk of your own affairs? If not, I will go and attend to my guests." 'You are very cruel,' said Josephine, quite subdued. 'Just tell me if it was—Stuart Nightingale?' 'No I shall not. You have nothing to do with Mr. Nightingale. You belong to Mr. Charteris.' 'You put me off!' cried Josephine, laying her face in her hands for a moment. 'It don't matter. I can find out some other way; there are ways enough.' She looked towards the opening where gleams of colour could now and then be seen flitting among the trees. Wych Hazel laid one little hand on her shoulder. 'Josephine,' she said, 'I wish you would break this off!' 'What?' 'Any sort of engagement with John Charteris.' 'I can't,' said the girl drearily. 'They all want me to marry him. There's be an awful row if I broke it off now. And what difference does it make? If you can't have what you would like, all the rest is pretty much one thing. It's a bore; but one may as well get all out of it one can.' 'See!' said Hazel in her sweet persuasive tones,—'you never know what you can have. And you can always have yourself. I would break it—feeling as you do—if I were half way through the last yes.'