People stared at the masculine-looking girl who seemed so intent upon feminine adornments. And someone, a man, laughed and nudged his companion: “Look at that! What is it?”
“My God! What indeed?”
She heard them and suddenly felt less elated as she made her way into the shop.
She said rather loudly: “I want a pearl ring.”
“A pearl ring? What kind, madam?”
She hesitated, unable now to describe what she did want: “I don’t quite know—but it must be a large one.”
“For yourself?” And she thought that the man smiled a little.
Of course he did nothing of the kind; but she stammered: “No—oh, no—it’s not for myself, it’s for a friend. She’s asked me to choose her a large pearl ring.” To her own ears the words sounded foolish and flustered.
There was nothing in that shop that fulfilled her requirements, so once more she must face the guns of Bond Street. Now she quickened her steps and found herself striding; modifying her pace she found herself dawdling; and always she was conscious of people who stared, or whom she imagined were staring. She felt sure that the shop assistants looked doubtful when she asked for a large and flawless pearl ring; and catching a glimpse of her reflection in a glass, she decided that naturally they would look doubtful—her appearance suggested neither pearls nor their price. She slipped a surreptitious hand into her pocket, gaining courage from the comforting feel of her cheque book.
When the east side of the thoroughfare had been exhausted, she crossed over quickly and made her way back towards her original corner. By now she was rather depressed and disgruntled. Supposing that she should not find what she wanted in Bond Street? She had no idea where else to look—her knowledge of London was far from extensive. But apparently the gods were feeling propitious, for a little further on she paused in front of a small, and as she thought, quite humble shop. As a matter of fact it was anything but humble, hence the bars halfway up its unostentatious window. Then she stared, for there on a white velvet cushion lay a pearl that looked like a round gleaming marble, a marble attached to a slender circlet of platinum—some sort of celestial marble! It was just such a ring as Angela had seen in Paris, and had since never ceased to envy.
The person behind this counter was imposing. He was old, and wore glasses with tortoiseshell rims: “Yes, madam, it’s a very fine specimen indeed. The setting’s French, just a thin band of platinum, there’s nothing to detract from the beauty of the pearl.”
He lifted it tenderly off its cushion, and as tenderly Stephen let it rest on her palm. It shone whiter than white against her skin, which by contrast looked sunburnt and weather-beaten.
Then the dignified old gentleman murmured the price, glancing curiously at the girl as he did so, but she seemed to be quite unperturbed, so he said: “Will you try the effect of the ring on your finger?”
At this, however, his customer flushed: “It wouldn’t go anywhere near my finger!”
“I can have it enlarged to any size you wish.”
“Thanks, but it’s not for me—it’s for a friend.”
“Have you any idea what size your friend takes, say in gloves? Is her hand large or small do you think?”
Stephen answered promptly: “It’s a very small hand,” then immediately looked and felt rather self-conscious.
And now the old gentleman was openly staring: “Excuse me,” he murmured, “an extraordinary likeness. …” Then more boldly: “Do you happen to be related to Sir Philip Gordon of Morton Hall, who died—it must be about two years ago—from some accident? I believe a tree fell—”
“Oh, yes, I’m his daughter,” said Stephen.
He nodded and smiled: “Of course, of course, you couldn’t be anything but his daughter.”
“You knew my father?” she inquired, in surprise.
“Very well, Miss Gordon, when your father was young. In those days Sir Philip was a customer of mine. I sold him his first pearl studs while he was at Oxford, and at least four scarf pins—a bit of a dandy Sir Philip was up at Oxford. But what may interest you is the fact that I made your mother’s engagement ring for him; a large half-hoop of very fine diamonds—”
“Did you make that ring?”
“I did, Miss Gordon. I remember quite well his showing me a miniature of Lady Anna—I remember his words. He said: ‘She’s so pure that only the purest stones are fit to touch her finger.’ You see, he’d known me ever since he was at Eton, that’s why he spoke of your mother to me—I felt deeply honoured. Ah, yes—dear, dear—your father was young then and very much in love. …”
She said suddenly: “Is this pearl as pure as those diamonds?”
And he answered: “It’s without a blemish.”
Then she found her cheque book and he gave her his pen with which to write out the very large cheque.
“Wouldn’t you like some reference?” she inquired, as she glanced at the sum for which he must trust her.
But at this he laughed: “Your face is your reference, if I may be allowed to say so, Miss Gordon.”
They shook hands because he had known her father, and she left the shop with the ring in her pocket.
