“Well,” Rose excused him, “we didn’t know each other very well. He was a great deal from home, but he remembered my twenty-first birthday and he gave me this necklace. I think it’s beautiful, but I never wear it now, and I think you may like to have it. Here it is, in its own box and with the card he wrote—‘A jewel for a rose.’” Holding it in her cupped hands, Henrietta murmured with delight: “May I have it really? How lovely! And may I have the card, too? He did say nice things. Are you sure you can spare the card? I expect he admired you very much. He liked beautiful women. My mother was pretty, too; but I don’t believe he ever gave her anything except a wedding-ring, and he had to give her that.” “Oh, Henrietta—well, his daughter shall have all he gave me.” “If you’re sure you don’t want it. What are the stones?” “Topaz and diamonds; but so small that you can wear them.” “Topaz and diamonds! Oh!” And Henrietta, clasping it round her neck and surveying herself by the candles Rose had lighted, said earnestly, “Oh, I do hope he paid for it!” This was the first thought of Reginald Mallett’s daughter. Rose was horrified into laughter, which seemed hysterically continuous to Henrietta, and through it Rose cried tenderly, “Oh, you poor child! You poor child!” Henrietta did not laugh. She said gravely, “All the same, I’m glad I had him for a father. Nobody but he would have chosen a thing like this. He had such taste.” She looked at her aunt. “I do hope I have some taste, too.” “I hope you have,” Rose said with equal gravity. She laughed no longer. “There are many kinds, and though he knew how to choose an ornament, he made mistakes in other ways.” Henrietta unclasped the necklace and laid it down. She looked, indeed, remarkably like her father. Her eyes flashed above her angry mouth. “You mean my mother!” “No, Henrietta. How could I? I did not know your mother, and from the little you have told us I believe she was too good for him.” “How can I tell you more,” Henrietta protested, “when I know what you would be thinking? You would be thinking she was common. Aunt Caroline does. She does! I don’t know how she dare! No, I won’t have the necklace.” “You must believe what I say, Henrietta. Your mother was not the only woman in your father’s life, and I was referring to the others.” “You need not speak of them to me,” Henrietta said with dignity. “I won’t do so again. That, perhaps, is where my own taste failed.” She decided to put out no more feelers for Henrietta’s thoughts. It was what she would have resented bitterly herself, and it did no good. She was not clever at this unpractised art, and she told herself that if her own affection could not tell her what she wished to know, the information would be useless. Moreover, she had Henrietta’s word for it that she was terribly like her father. “So put on the necklace again. It suits you better than it does me, so well that we can pretend he really chose it for you.”