There was nothing in that shop that fulfilled her requirements, so once more she must face the guns of Bond Street. Now she quickened her steps and found herself striding; modifying her pace she found herself dawdling; and always she was conscious of people who stared, or whom she imagined were staring. She felt sure that the shop assistants looked doubtful when she asked for a large and flawless pearl ring; and catching a glimpse of her reflection in a glass, she decided that naturally they would look doubtful—her appearance suggested neither pearls nor their price. She slipped a surreptitious hand into her pocket, gaining courage from the comforting feel of her cheque book. When the east side of the thoroughfare had been exhausted, she crossed over quickly and made her way back towards her original corner. By now she was rather depressed and disgruntled. Supposing that she should not find what she wanted in Bond Street? She had no idea where else to look—her knowledge of London was far from extensive. But apparently the gods were feeling propitious, for a little further on she paused in front of a small, and as she thought, quite humble shop. As a matter of fact it was anything but humble, hence the bars half-way up its unostentatious window. Then she stared, for there on a white velvet cushion lay a pearl that looked like a round gleaming marble, a marble attached to a slender circlet of platinum—some sort of celestial marble! It was just such a ring as Angela had seen in Paris, and had since never ceased to envy. The person behind this counter was imposing. He was old, and wore glasses with tortoiseshell rims: ‘Yes, madam, it’s a very fine specimen indeed. The setting’s French, just a thin band of platinum, there’s nothing to detract from the beauty of the pearl.’ He lifted it tenderly off its cushion, and as tenderly Stephen let it rest on her palm. It shone whiter than white against her skin, which by contrast looked sunburnt and weather-beaten. Then the dignified old gentleman murmured the price, glancing curiously at the girl as he did so, but she seemed to be quite unperturbed, so he said: ‘Will you try the effect of the ring on your finger?’ At this, however, his customer flushed: ‘It wouldn’t go anywhere near my finger!’ ‘I can have it enlarged to any size you wish.’ ‘Thanks, but it’s not for me—it’s for a friend.’ ‘Have you any idea what size your friend takes, say in gloves? Is her hand large or small do you think?’ Stephen answered promptly: ‘It’s a very small hand,’ then immediately looked and felt rather self-conscious. And now the old gentleman was openly staring: ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured, ‘an extraordinary likeness. . . .’ Then more boldly: ‘Do you happen to be related to Sir Philip Gordon of Morton Hall, who died—it must be about two years ago—from some accident? I believe a tree fell—’ ‘Oh, yes, I’m his daughter,’ said Stephen.