Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/180

172 “I am of age, you see,” said Lettie.

“It is a beauty, isn’t it. Let me try it on, will you? Yes, I’ve never had a ring. There, it won’t go over my knuckle—no—I thought not. Aren’t my hands red?—it’s the cold—yes, it’s too small for me. I do like it.”

George sat watching the play of the four hands in his sister’s lap, two hands moving so white and fascinating in the twilight, the other two rather red, with rather large bones, looking so nervous, almost hysterical. The ring played between the four hands, giving an occasional flash from the twilight or candlelight.

“You must congratulate me,” she said, in a very low voice, and two of us knew she spoke to him.

“As, yes,” said Emily, “I do.”

“And you?” she said, turning to him who was silent.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“Say what you like.”

“Sometime, when I’ve thought about it.”

“Cold dinners!” laughed Lettie, awaking Alice’s old sarcasm at his slowness.

“What?” he exclaimed, looking up suddenly at her taunt. She knew she was playing false; she put the ring on her finger and went across the room to Leslie, laying her arm over his shoulder, and leaning her head against him, murmuring softly to him. He, poor fellow, was delighted with her, for she did not display her fondness often.

We went in to tea. The yellow shaded lamp shone softly over the table, where Christmas roses spread wide open among some dark-coloured leaves; where