to hereafter, in the depths of my own heart.  I watched him in silence, and it passed.  As he pushed the door to with his foot, the movement caused something to swing and glitter against his breast—­a ring on his watch-ribbon smaller than I could wear, a woman’s ruby ring.  The small, feminine imp, who abides with those who have beams in their eyes, and helps them to extract motes from the eyes of others, inspired me.  I pointed to the ring.  Dropping his eyes, he said:  “I loved her shamefully, and she loved me shamefully.  When shall I take it off—­cursed sign?” And he snapped it with his thumb and finger.

I grew rigid with virtue.

“You may not conjure up any tragic ideas on the subject.  She is no outcast.  She is here to-night; if there was ruin, it was mutual.”

“And your other faults?”

“Ah!” he said, with a terrible accent, “we shall see.”

There was a tap on the door; it was Ben’s.  I fell back a step, and he came in.  “Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?” he said, turning pale.

“No.”

“Come with me, then; you must.”  And he put my arm in his.

“Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!” said Desmond, standing before the door.  “Give me your hand.”

I gave him both my hands.  He kissed one, and then the other, and moved to let us pass out.  But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat.

“Allons, Ben,” I said.

“Go on, go on,” said Desmond, holding the door wide open.

A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby ring!  The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found.  I looked in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them.  Another feeling took the place of my curiosity.  I forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond.  I was mad for the sight of him—­mad to touch his hand once more.  I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did; but Caesar was in the way.  He stayed by me till the lights were turned down.

Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond’s disappearance, and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles.

“If you are to accompany me, Ben,” I said, “now is the time.”  And he slipped out.  He preserved a determined silence.  I shook him, and said—­“Veronica.”  He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; “Do you know now that I love Desmond?”

“Will you bring him into our Paradise?”

“Where?”

“Our home, in Surrey.”

“Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?”

“If you marry Desmond Somers,” he said austerely, “you will contradict three lives,—­yours, mine, and Veronica’s.  What beast was it that suggested this horrible discord?  Have you so much passion that you cannot discern the future you offer yourself?”