s she expressed it to herself, she
would have died before taking the first step. The obvious thing was
for him to pick up the ring from off the floor, bring it to her humbly
while her back was turned on him, and beseech her to allow him to slip
it on where it belonged; whereupon she would consider as to whether
she would do so or not. In her present frame of mind, so she told
herself, she would not. Nothing would induce her to do anything of the
kind. He had betrayed the fact that he knew something as to which she
was desperately sensitive, which other people knew, but which she had
always supposed to have escaped his observation--that she was like an
old maid.

She was. She was only twenty-five, but she had been like an old maid
at fifteen. It had been a joke till she was twenty, after which it had
continued as a joke to her friends, but a grief to herself. She was
distinguished, aristocratic, intellectual, accomplished, and Aunt
Marion would probably see to it that she was left tolerably well off;
nevertheless she had picked up from her aunt, or perhaps had inherited
from the same source, the peculiar quality of the woman who would
probably not marry. Because she knew it and bewailed it, it had come
like a staggering blow to learn that Rash knew it, and perhaps
bewailed it too. The least he could do to atone for that offense would
be to beg her, to implore her on his bended knees, to wear his ring
again; and she might not do it even then.

The dramatic experience was worth waiting for, however, and so with
spirit churning she leaned her hot brow against the thin, cool flank
of Hunt Diedrich's antelope. She knew by the fierce grinding of his
steps on the far side of the room that he hadn't yet picked up the
ring; but there was no hurry as to that. Since she would never, never
forgive him for knowing what she thought he didn't know--forgive him
in her heart, that was to say--not if she married him ten times over,
or to the longest day he lived, there was plenty of time for reaching
friendly terms again. Her anger had not yet blown off, nor had she
stabbed him hard enough. As with most people subject to storms of hot
temper, stabs, given and received, were all in her day's work. They
relieved for the moment the pressure of emotion, leaving no permanent
ill-will behind them.

She heard him come to a halt, but did not turn to look at him.

"So it's all over!"

As a peg on which to hang a retort the words would serve