"The fourteenth? I'll try to make it. Who are you to be?"

"Beatrice d'Este--in a court gown of black tissue instead of velvet, with
just a touch of pink--oh, but a wonderful creation! I designed it myself.
We are not bothering too much about historical accuracy."

"How would you like this for the touch of pink!" He took the immense ruby
from his pocket and tossed it into her lap.

For a moment she stared at it with expanding eyes, then gave a
little shriek of rapture and flung herself into his arms, the child
he had married.

"Is it true? But true? Shall I wear this wonderful thing? The women will
die of jealousy. I shall feel like an empress--but more, more, I shall
wear this lovely thing--I, I, Hélène Ruyler, born Perrin, who never had a
franc in her pocket in Rouen! Price! Have you changed your mind--but no!
I cannot believe it."

That was it then! He watched her mobile face sharply. It expressed
nothing but the excited rapture of a very young woman over a magnificent
toy. There was none of the morbid feverish passion he had dreadfully
anticipated. His spirits felt lighter, although he sighed that a bauble,
even if it were one of the finest of its kind in the world, should have
projected its sinister shadow between them. It had a wicked history. But
Hélène saw no shadows. She held it up to the light, peered into it as it
lay half concealed in the cup of her slender white hands, fondled it
against her cheek, hung the chain about her neck.

"How I have dreamed of it," she murmured. "How did you come to change