It was still a cold, damp face (Grizel was always in such a hurry) when she opened her most precious drawer and took from it a certain glove which was wrapped in silk paper, but was not perhaps quite so conceited as it had been, for, alas and alack! it was now used as a wrapper itself.  The ring was inside it.  If Grizel wanted to be engaged, absolutely and at once, all she had to do was to slip that ring upon her finger.

It had been hers for a week or more.  Tommy had bought it in a certain Scottish town whose merchant princes are so many, and have risen splendidly from such small beginnings, that after you have been there a short time you beg to be introduced to someone who has not got on.  When you look at them they slap their trouser pockets.  When they look at you they are wondering if you know how much they are worth.  Tommy, one day, roaming their streets (in which he was worth incredibly little), and thinking sadly of what could never be, saw the modest little garnet ring in a jeweller’s window, and attached to it was a pathetic story.  No other person could have seen the story, but it was as plain to him as though it had been beautifully written on the tag of paper which really contained the price.  With his hand on the door he paused, overcome by that horror of entering shops without a lady to do the talking, which all men of genius feel (it is the one sure test), hurried away, came back, went to and fro shyly, until he saw that he was yielding once more to the indecision he thought he had so completely mastered, whereupon he entered bravely (though it was one of those detestable doors that ring a bell as they open), and sternly ordered the jeweller, who could have bought and sold our Tommy with one slap on the trouser leg, to hand the ring over to him.

He had no intention of giving it to Grizel.  That, indeed, was part of its great tragedy, for this is the story Tommy read into the ring:  There was once a sorrowful man of twenty-three, and forty, and sixty.  Ah, how gray the beard has grown as we speak!  How thin the locks!  But still we know him for the same by that garnet ring.  Since it became his no other eye has seen it, and yet it is her engagement ring.  Never can he give it to her, but must always carry it about with him as the piteous memory of what had never been.  How innocent it looked in his hand, and with an innocence that never wore off, not even when he had reached his threescore years.  As it aged it took on another kind of innocence only.  It looked pitiable now, for there is but a dishonoured age for a lonely little ring which can never see the finger it was made to span.

A hair-shirt!  Such it was to him, and he put it on willingly, knowing it could be nothing else.  Every smart it gave him pleased, even while it pained.  If ever his mind roamed again to the world of make-believe, that ring would jerk him back to facts.