‘That is very true,’ said the dean.

Violetta broke through the little circle to show her lover the ring.  ‘Look,’ she said, holding up her pretty hand.  ’Isn’t it lovely?  Isn’t mamma very kind?’

The curate turned his eyes from the fire with an effort.  He had been listening to all they said in a state of dreamy surprise.  He did not wish to look at the stone, and the moment he saw it he perceived it was what he had seen before.  It was not exactly the same shade of purple, but it appeared to him that he had seen it before by daylight, and now the lamps were lit.  It was the same shape and size, and the tiny interior star was the same.  He moved his head from side to side to see if the ray moved to meet his eye, and he found that it did so.  He looked at Violetta.  How beautiful she was in her white gown, with her little hand uplifted to display the shining stone, and her face upturned to his!  The soft warm curve of the delicate breast and throat, the red lips that seemed to breathe pure kisses and holy words, the tender eyes shining like the jewel, dewy with the sacred tears she had been shedding, and the yellow hair, smooth, glossy, brushed saintly-wise on either side of the nunlike brow—­all this he looked at, and his senses grew confused.  The sad rise and fall of the Hebrew chant was in his ears again; the bright room and the people were not there, but the chant seemed in some strange way to rise up in folds of darkness and surround Violetta like a frame; and everything else was dark and filled with the music, except Violetta, who stood there white and shining, holding up the ring for him to look at; and at her feet lay that other woman, wet and dead, with the same stone in the steel chain at her throat.  ’Isn’t it lovely?  Isn’t mamma very kind?’ Violetta was saying.

‘My dear, I think he is ill,’ said the vicar.

They took him by the arm, putting him on a chair, and fetched water and a glass of wine.  He heard them talking together.

‘I daresay it has been too much for him,’ said the dean.  ’Joy is often as hard to bear as grief.’

‘He is such a fellow for work,’ said the vicar, ’I never knew any one like him.’

The curate sat up quite straight.  ’Did any of you ever see an amethyst like this set in steel?’

‘In steel?  What an odd idea!’ said the maiden aunt.

‘He is not quite himself yet,’ said the dean in a low voice, tapping her on the shoulder.

’I think it would be very inappropriate, indeed very wrong, to set a valuable stone in any of the baser metals,’ said Mrs. Moore.  She spoke as if the idea were a personal affront to herself, but then she had an immense notion of her own importance, and always looked upon all wrong-doing as a personal grievance.

‘Whatever made you think of it?’ asked Violetta.

‘I daresay it was rather absurd,’ said the curate meekly.

‘By no means,’ said the barrister; ’the idea of making jewellery exclusively of gold is modern and crude.  In earlier times many beautiful articles of personal ornamentation were made of brass and even of iron.’