My wedding ring, guarded by my engagement solitaire, was upon the third finger of my left hand.  Jack would be sure to see them if I kept them on.

I told myself fiercely that I did not wish Jack to know I was married until after we had had this dinner together.  With my experience of Dicky’s jealousy I had not much hope that Jack and I would ever dine together in this fashion again.

On the other hand, I had a strong aversion to removing my wedding ring even for an hour or two.  Besides being a silent falsehood, the act would seem almost an omen of evil.  I am not generally superstitious, but something made me dread doing it.

However, I had to choose quickly.  I must either take off the rings or tell Jack at once that I was married.  I was not brave enough to do the latter.

Taking my silver mesh bag from my muff, I opened it under the table, and, quickly stripping off my gloves, removed my rings, tucked them into a corner of the bag and put gloves and bag back in my muff.  Jack, man-like, had noticed nothing.

Now to keep the conversation in my own hands, so that Jack should suspect nothing until we had dined.

The waiter stood at attention with pencil pointed over his order card.  Jack was studying the menu card, and I was studying Jack.

It was the first chance I had had to take a good look at this cousin-brother of mine after his year’s absence.  Every time I had attempted it I had met his eyes fixed upon me with an inscrutable look that puzzled and embarrassed me.  Now, however, he was occupied with the menu card, and I stared openly at him.

He had changed very little, I told myself.  Of course he was terribly browned by his year in the tropics, but otherwise he was the same handsome, well-set-up chap I remembered so well.

I knew Jack’s favorite dish, fortunately.  If he could sit down in front of just the right kind of steak, thick, juicy, broiled just right, he was happy.

“How about a steak?” I inquired demurely.  “I haven’t had a good one in ages.”

“I’m sure you’re saying that to please me,” Jack protested, “but I haven’t the heart to say so.  You can imagine the food I’ve lived on in South America.  But you must order the rest of the meal.”

“Surely I will,” I said, for I knew the things he liked.  “Baked potatoes, new asparagus, buttered beets, romaine salad, and we’ll talk about the dessert later.”

The waiter bowed and hurried away.  “You’re either clairvoyant, Margaret or—­”

“Perhaps I, too, have a memory,” I returned gayly, and then regretted the speech as I saw the look that leaped into Jack’s eyes.

“I wish I was sure,” he began impetuously, then he checked himself.  “I wonder whether we are too early for any music?” he finished lamely.

“I am afraid so,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter anyway.  We want to talk, not to listen.  I’ve got something to tell you, my dear, that I’ve been thinking about all this year I’ve been gone.”