"But isn't there some _way_?" she whispered. "Some way to make
her _know_?"

He pointed to the large boxes. "That," he said simply, "is the
meaning of those. It's been seven years--but I keep on trying."

She was silent, the tears too close for words. And she had thought
it cheap ambition!--vulgar aspiration--silly show--vanity!

"Suppose you thought I was a queer one, talking about lively looking
things. But you see now? Thought it might attract her attention,
thought something real gorgeous like this might impress money on
her. Though I don't know,"--he seemed to grow weary as he told it;
"I got her a lot of diamonds, thinking they might interest her, and
she thought she'd stolen 'em, and they had to take them away."

Still the girl did not speak. Her hand was shading her eyes.

"But there's nothing like trying. Nothing like keeping right on
trying. And anyhow--a fellow likes to think he's taking his wife
something from Paris."

They passed before her in their heartbreaking folly, their tragic
uselessness, their lovable absurdity and stinging irony--those
things they had bought that afternoon: an _opera cloak_--a
_velvet dress_--_those hats_--_red silk stockings_.

The mockery of them wrung her heart. Right there in the tea-shop
Virginia was softly crying.