“Oh, do look at this!” she said to her companion.  “Did you ever see such a love of a ring?—­what a perfect engagement-ring it would make!”

Then what mad, half-sullen, half-petulant, and wholly reckless impulse sprang into his brain!

“Well, will you wear that as an engagement-ring, if I give it to you?” he asked.

She looked up, startled, amused, but not displeased.

“Why, really—­really—­that is a question to ask!” she exclaimed.

“Come along in and see if it fits your finger—­come along!” and therewith Miss Burgoyne, a little bewildered and still inclined to laugh, found herself at the jeweller’s counter.  Was it a joke?  Oh, certainly not.  Lionel was quite serious and matter of fact.  The tray was produced.  The ring was taken out.  For a moment she hesitated as to which finger to try it on, but overcame that shyness and placed it on the third finger of her left hand and said it fitted admirably.

“Just keep it where it is, then,” he said; and then he added a word or two to the jeweller, whom he knew; and he and his companion left the shop.

“Oh, Lionel, what an idea!” said Miss Burgoyne, with her eyes bent modestly on the pavement.  “If I had fancied you knew that man, do you think I would ever have entered the place?  What must he think?  What would any one think?—­an engagement in the middle of the streets of London!”

“Plenty of witnesses to the ceremony, that’s all,” said he, lightly.

Nay, was there not a curious sense of possession, now that he walked alongside this little, bright person in the magnificent furs?  He had acquired something by this simple transaction; he would be less lonely now; he would mate with his kind.  But he did not choose to look far into the future.  Here he was walking along Piccadilly, with a cheerful and smiling and prettily costumed young lady by his side who had just been so kind as to accept an engagement-ring from him, and what more could he want?

“Lionel,” she said, still with modestly downcast eyes, “this mustn’t be known to any human being—­no, not to a single human being—­not yet, I mean.  I will get a strip of white india-rubber to cover the ring, so that no one shall be able to see it on the stage.”

Perhaps he recalled the fact that recently she had been wearing another ring similarly concealed from the public gaze; or perhaps he had forgotten that little circumstance.  What did it matter?  Did anything matter?  He only knew he had pledged himself to marry Kate Burgoyne—­enough.

CHAPTER XX.

IN DIRER STRAITS.