She did not pretend. A very thin old man, who looked
like one of the prophets, drawn out of the wilderness and clothed by
the most fashionable of London tailors, looking over their shoulders
as he talked to them because he saw at once that they were not
customers who were likely to add very much to his shop's exchequer,
produced a large tray, full of rings that glittered and sparkled and
danced as though they'd been told to show themselves off to the best
possible advantage. But for Maggie at once there was only one
possible ring. It was a thin hoop of gold with three small pearls
set in the middle of it; nothing very especial about it, it was in
fact less striking than almost any other ring in the tray. Maggie
looked at the ring and the ring looked at Maggie. It was as though
the ring said, "I shall belong to you whether you take me or no."
"Now," said Martin with a little catch in his throat, "you make your
choice, Maggie." He was not a millionaire, but he did honestly
intend that whatever ring she chose she should have.
"Oh," said Maggie, whispering because the shop was so large and the
prophet so indifferent, "don't you think you'd better choose?"
At the same time she felt the anxious gaze of the three little
pearls upon her.
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