“Now, really,” she said, “you are too helpless, my dear.  You cannot do a thing without a dozen women at your elbow.  What will become of you?  You will have to marry a millionaire.—­What’s the matter with you, child?”

Clare undid her tight-shut fingers, as if to some attraction of her eyes, and displayed a small gold hoop on the palm of a green glove.

“A wedding-ring!” exclaimed Mrs. Doria, inspecting the curiosity most daintily.

There on Clare’s pale green glove lay a wedding-ring!

Rapid questions as to where, when, how, it was found, beset Clare, who replied:  “In the Gardens, mama.  This morning.  When I was walking behind Richard.”

“Are you sure he did not give it you, Clare?”

“Oh no, mama! he did not give it me.”

“Of course not! only he does such absurd things!  I thought, perhaps—­these boys are so exceedingly ridiculous!  Mrs. Doria had an idea that it might have been concerted between the two young gentlemen, Richard and Ralph, that the former should present this token of hymeneal devotion from the latter to the young lady of his love; but a moment’s reflection exonerated boys even from such preposterous behaviour.

“Now, I wonder,” she speculated on Clare’s cold face, “I do wonder whether it’s lucky to find a wedding-ring.  What very quick eyes you have, my darling!” Mrs. Doria kissed her.  She thought it must be lucky, and the circumstance made her feel tender to her child.  Her child did not move to the kiss.

“Let’s see whether it fits,” said Mrs. Doria, almost infantine with surprise and pleasure.

Clare suffered her glove to be drawn off.  The ring slid down her long thin finger, and settled comfortably.

“It does!” Mrs. Doria whispered.  To find a wedding ring is open to any woman; but to find a wedding-ring that fits may well cause a superstitious emotion.  Moreover, that it should be found while walking in the neighbourhood of the identical youth whom a mother has destined for her daughter, gives significance to the gentle perturbation of ideas consequent on such a hint from Fortune.

“It really fits!” she pursued.  “Now I never pay any attention to the nonsense of omens and that kind of thing” (had the ring been a horseshoe Mrs. Doria would have pinked it up and dragged it obediently home), “but this, I must say, is odd—­to find a ring that fits!—­singular!  It never happened to me.  Sixpence is the most I ever discovered, and I have it now.  Mind you keep it, Clare—­this ring:  And,” she laughed, “offer it to Richard when he comes; say, you think he must have dropped it.”

The dimple in Clare’s cheek quivered.