When they had reached her sitting-room (dim and cool, with its half-drawn blinds and the straw-coloured linen covers of its furniture), she put into his hands a small case of shagreen, small and hard, and at the edges white with age.

“Go to the window and see what’s in it,” she said.

And obeying, “By Jove, what a stunner!” he exclaimed.  The case contained a ring, a light circle of gold, set with a ruby, surrounded by a row of diamonds,—­for my part, I think the most beautiful ruby I have ever seen.  It was as big as a hazel-nut, or almost; it was cut, with innumerable facets, in the shape of a heart; and it quivered and burned, and flowed and rippled, liquidly, with the purest, limpidest red fire.

“’Tis the spirit of a rose, distilled and crystallized,” said Lady Blanchemain.

“’Tis a drop of liquid light,” said John.  “But why do you give it to me?  I can’t wear it.  I don’t think I ought to accept it.”

“Nobody asks you to wear it,” said Lady Blanchemain.  “It’s a woman’s ring, of course.  But as for accepting it, you need have no scruples.  It’s an old Blanchemain gem, that was in the family a hundred years before I came into it.  It’s properly an heirloom, and you’re the heir.  I give it to you for a purpose.  Should you ever become engaged, I desire you to placcit upon the finger of the adventurous woman.”

IV

Under a gnarled old olive, by the river’s brim, Annunziata sat on the turf, head bowed, so that her curls fell in a tangle all about her cheeks, and gazed fixedly into the green waters, the laughing, dancing, purling waters, green, and, where the sun reached them, shot with seams and cleavages of light, like fluorspar.  In the sun-flecked, shadow-dappled grass near by, violets tried to hide themselves, but were betrayed by their truant sweetness.  The waters purled, a light breeze rustled the olive-leaves, and birds were singing loud and wild, as birds will after rain.

Maria Dolores, coming down the path that followed the river’s windings, stood for a minute, and watched her small friend without speaking.  But at last she called out, “Ciao, Annunziata.  Are you dreaming dreams and seeing visions?”

Annunziata started and looked up.  “Sh-h!” she whispered, with an admonitory gesture.  She stole a wary glance roundabout, and then spoke as one fearful of being overheard.  “I was listening to the music of Divopan,” she said.

Maria Dolores, who had come closer, appeared at a loss.  “The music of—­what?” she questioned.

“Sh-h!” whispered Annunziata.  “I would not dare to say it aloud.  The music of Divopan.”

“Divopan?” Maria Dolores puzzled, compliantly guarding her tone.  “What is that?”

“Divo—­Pan,” said Annunziata, dividing the word in two, and always with an air of excessive caution.

But Maria Dolores helplessly shook her head.  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.  What is Divo—­Pan?”