Around the corner from his home, he went into a small jewelry shop, a remnant of the town of the past.  There were no customers in the place, and the old Galician jeweler sat at the back playing solitaire.  At sight of Roger he arose; and presently in a small back room, beneath the glare of a powerful lamp, the two were studying the ring which Roger had found in the ghetto that night.  It was plain, just a thin worn band of gold with an emerald by no means large; but the setting was old and curious, and personal, distinctive.  Somebody over in Europe had worked on it long and lovingly.  Now as the Galician gently rubbed and polished and turned the ring this way and that, the light revealed crude tiny figures, a man and a woman under a tree.  And was that a vine or a serpent?  They studied it long and absorbedly.

At home, up in his bedroom, Roger opened a safe which stood in one corner, took out a large shallow tray and sat down with it by his lamp.  A strange array of rings was there, small and delicate, huge, bizarre; great signet rings and poison rings, love tokens, charms and amulets, rings which had been worn by wives, by mistresses, by favorite slaves and by young girls in convents; rings with the Madonna and rings with many other saints graven on large heavy stones; rings French and Russian, Polish, Italian, Spanish, Syrian.  Some were many centuries old.  In nine shallow metal trays they filled the safe in Roger’s room.  Although its money value was small, the Gale collection was well known to a scattered public of connoisseurs, and Roger took pride in showing it.  But what had always appealed to him most was the romance, the mystery, stored up in these old talismans that had lived so many ages, travelled through so many lands, decked so many fingers.  Roger had found every one of them in the pawnshops of New York.  What new recruits to America had brought them here and pawned them?  From what old cities had they come?  What passions of love and jealousy, of hatred, faith, devotion were in this glittering array?  Roger’s own love affair had been deep, but quiet and even and happy.  All the wild adventures, the might-have-beens in his sex life, were gathered in these dusky trays with their richly colored glints of light.

Of his daughters, Laura had been the one most interested in his rings, and so he thought of Laura now as he placed in the tray the new ring he had bought, the one he would have liked for her.  But a vague uneasiness filled his mind, for he knew she had the same craving as he for what gleamed out of these somber trays.  The old Galician jeweler had long been quite a friend of hers, she had often dropped in at his shop to ask him curious questions about his women patrons.  And it was just this side of him that Roger did not care for.  So many of those women were from a dubious glittering world, and the old Galician took a weird vicarious joy in many of the gay careers into which he sent his beloved rings, his brooches, earrings,