“I’m sorry,” said Toby meekly.  “Shall I smoke one now?”

He pinched her ear.  “No.  We’ll go out.  You’ve got to shop.  First though, I’ve got something for you.  I’m not sure you deserve it, but that’s a detail.  Few of us ever do get our deserts in this naughty world.”

“What is it?” said Toby.

Her bright eyes questioned him.  She looked more than ever like an eager boy.  He pulled a leather case out of his pocket and held it out to her.

“Oh, what is it?” she said, and coloured more deeply.  “You haven’t—­haven’t—­been buying me things?”

“Open it!” said Saltash, with regal peremptoriness.

But still she hesitated, till he suddenly laid his hands on hers and compelled her.  She saw a single string of pearls on a bed of blue velvet.  Her eyes came up to his in quick distress.

“Oh, I ought not to take them!” she said.

“And why not?” said Saltash.

She bit her lip, almost as if she would burst into tears.  “Monseigneur—­”

“Call me Charles!” he commanded.

His hands still held hers.  She dropped her eyes to them, and suddenly, very suddenly, she bent her head and kissed them.

He started slightly, and in a moment he set her free, leaving the case in her hold. “Eh bien!” he said lightly.  “That is understood.  You like my pearls, cherie?”

“I love—­anything—­that comes from you,” she made low reply.  “But these—­but these—­I ought not to take these.”

“But why not?” he questioned.  “May I not make you a present?  Are you not—­my wife?”

“Yes.”  More faintly came Toby’s answer.  “But—­but—­but—­a wife is different.  A wife—­does not need—­presents.”

“Mais vraiment!” protested Saltash.  “So a wife is different!  How—­different, mignonne?”

He tried to look into the downcast eyes, but she would not raise them.  She was trembling a little.  “Such things as these,” she said, under her breath, “are what a man would give to—­to—­to the woman he loves.”

“And so you think they are unsuitable for—­my wife?” questioned Saltash, with a whimsical look on his dark face.

She did not answer him, only mutely held out the case, still without looking at him.

He stood for a second or two, watching her, an odd flame coming and going in his eyes; then abruptly he moved, picked up the pearls from their case, straightened them dexterously, and clasped them about her neck.

She lifted her face then, quivering and irresolute, to his.  “And I can give you—­nothing,” she said.

He took her lightly by the shoulders, as one who caresses a child. “Ma cherie, you have given me already much more than you realize.  But we will not go into that now.  We will go to the shops.  Afterwards, we will go out to Fontainebleau and picnic in the forest.  You will like that?”

“Oh, so much!” she said, with enthusiasm.