“I had it in my hand last night,” she said in a breaking voice.  True, once more.

“What is it, darling?  Are you crying?  This is no day for tears.”

“I little thought that I should have yourself to-day,” she tried to say.

Then the tears came, tears of shame, big, hot, slow.  They fell upon his hand.  She was weeping for joy, he thought.  What else could any man think in such a case?  He drew her to him, and pressed her cheek with his hand as her head nestled on his shoulder.

“When you put this ring on my finger, dear—­so long ago——­”

She sobbed aloud.

“No, darling—­no, dear heart,” he said, comforting her, “you must not cry—­that long ago is over now and gone for ever.  Do you remember that day, sweetheart, in the broad spring sun upon the terrace among the lemon trees.  No, dear—­your tears hurt me always, even when they are shed in happiness—­no, dear, no.  Rest there, let me dry your dear eyes—­so and so.  Again?  For ever, if you will.  While you have tears, I have kisses to dry them—­it was so then, on that very day.  I can remember.  I can see it all—­and you.  You have not changed, love, in all those years, more than a blossom changes in one hour of a summer’s day!  You took this ring and put it on my finger.  Do you remember what I said?  I know the very words.  I promised you—­it needed no promise either—­that it should never leave its place until you took it back—­and you—­how well I remember your face—­you said that you would take it from my hand some day, when all was well, when you should be free to give me another in its stead, and to take one in return.  I have kept my word, beloved.  Keep yours—­I have brought you back the ring.  Take it, sweetheart.  It is heavy with the burden of lonely years.  Take it and give me that other which I claim.”

She did not speak, for she was fighting down the choking sobs, struggling to keep back the burning drops that scalded her cheeks, striving to gather strength for the weight of a greater shame.  Lie, or lose all, the voice said.

Very slowly she raised her head.  She knew that his hand was close to hers, held there that she might fulfil Beatrice’s promise.  Was she not free?  Could she not give him what he asked?  No matter how—­she tried to say it to herself and could not.  She felt his breath upon her hair.  He was waiting.  If she did not act soon or speak he would wonder what held her back—­wonder—­suspicion next and then?  She put out her hand to touch his fingers, half blinded, groping as though she could not see.  He made it easy for her.  He fancied she was trembling, as she was weeping, with the joy of it all.

She felt the ring, though she dared not look at it.  She drew it a little and felt that it would come off easily.  She felt the fingers she loved so well, straight, strong and nervous, and she touched them lovingly.  The ring was not tight, it would pass easily over the joint that alone kept it in its place.