A girl out of the dreams and
the ether--a sprig of life woven out of the moonbeams!
"Do you know me?" she asked as we danced.
"Yes," I answered, "and no. I have seen you; but I do not
remember; you come from the sunshine."
She laughed prettily.
"Do you always talk like this?"
"You are out of my dreams," I answered: "it is sufficient. But who
are you?"
She held back her pretty head and looked at me; her lips drooped
slightly at the corners, a sad smile, and tender, in the soft
wonderful depths of her eyes--a pity.
"Harry," she asked, "are you going to wear this ring?"
So that was it. The ring and the maiden. What was the bond? There
was weirdness in its colour, almost cabalistic--a call out of the
occult. The strange beauty of the girl, her remarkable presence,
and her concern. Whoever and whatever she was her anxiety was not
personal. In some way she was woven up with this ring and poor
Watson.
"I think I shall," I answered.
Again the strange querulous pity and hesitation; her eyes grew
darker, almost pleading.
"You won't give it to me?"
How near I came to doing it I shall not tell. It would be hard to
say it. I knew vaguely that she was playing; that I was the
plaything. It is hard for a man to think of himself as being toyed
with. She was certain; she was confident of my weakness. It was
resentment, perhaps, and pride of self that gave the answer.
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