Jasmine entered with a little tray in one hand, bearing a bowl of delicate broth, while under an arm was a puzzle-box, which was one of the relics of a certain house-party in which a great many smart people played at the simple life, and sought to find a new sensation in making believe they were the village rector’s brood of innocents.  She was dressed in a gown almost as simple in make as that of the nurse, but of exquisite material—­the soft green velvet which she had worn when she met Ian in the sweetshop in Regent Street.  Her hair was a perfect gold, wavy and glistening and prettily fine, and her eyes were shining—­so blue, so deep, so alluring.

The boy saw her first, and his eyes grew bigger with welcome and interest.

“It’s her—­me lydy,” he said with a happy gasp, for she seemed to him like a being from another sphere.  When she came near him the faint, delicious perfume exhaling from her garments was like those flower-gardens and scented fields to which he had once been sent for a holiday by some philanthropic society.

Ian rose as the nurse came forward quickly to relieve Jasmine of the tray and the box.  His first glance was enigmatical—­almost suspicious—­then, as he saw the radiance in her face and the burden she carried, a new light came into his eyes.  In this episode of Jigger she had shown all that gentle charm, sympathy, and human feeling which he had once believed belonged so much to her.  It seemed to him in the old days that at heart she was simple, generous, and capable of the best feelings of woman, and of living up to them; and there began to grow at the back of his mind now the thought that she had been carried away by a great temptation—­the glitter and show of power and all that gold can buy, and a large circle for the skirts of woman’s pride and vanity.  If she had married him instead of Byng, they would now be living in a small house in Curzon Street, or some such fashionable quarter, with just enough to enable them to keep their end up with people who had five thousand a year—­with no box at the opera, or house in the country, or any of the great luxuries, and with a thriving nursery which would be a promise of future expense—­if she had married him! . . .  A kinder, gentler spirit was suddenly awake in him, and he did not despise her quite so much.  On her part, she saw him coming nearer, as, standing in the door of a cottage in a valley, one sees trailing over the distant hills, with the light behind, a welcome and beloved figure with face turned towards the home in the green glade.

A smile came to his lips, as suspicion stole away ashamed, and he said:  “This will not do.  Jigger will be spoiled.  We shall have to see Mr. Mappin about it.”

As she yielded to him the puzzle-box, which she had refused to the nurse, she said:  “And pray who sets the example?  I am a very imitative person.  Besides, I asked Mr. Mappin about the broth, so it’s all right; and Jigger will want the puzzle-box when you are not here,” she added, quizzically.