Part 12 (1/2)
”That's no excuse,” he concluded. ”I should have kept my word to you--and I really wanted to.... And I was not quite such a piker as you thought me.”
”I didn't think that of you, C. Bailey, Junior.”
”You must have!”
”I didn't.”
”That's because you're so decent, but it makes my infamy the blacker.... Anyway I _did_ write you and _did_ send you the strap-watch. I sent both to Fifty-fourth Street. The Dead Letter Office returned them to me.”... He drew from his inner pocket a letter and a packet. ”Here they are.”
She sat up slowly and very slowly took the letter from his hand.
”Four years old,” he commented. ”Isn't that the limit?” And he began to tear the sealed paper from the packet.
”What a shame,” he went on contritely, ”that you wore that old gun-metal watch of mine so long. I was mortified when I saw it on your wrist that day--”
”I wear it still,” she said with a smile.
”Nonsense!” he glanced at her bare wrist and laughed.
”I _do_,” she insisted. ”It is only because I have just bathed and am prepared for the night that I am not wearing it now.”
He looked up, incredulous, then his expression changed subtly.
”Is that so?” he asked.
But the hint of seriousness confused her and she merely nodded.
He had freed the case from the sealed paper and now he laid it on her knees, saying: ”Thank the Lord I'm not such a piker now as I was, anyway. I hope you'll wear it, Athalie, and fire that other affair out of your back window.”
”There is no back window,” she said, raising her charming eyes to his,--”there's only an air-shaft.... Am I to open it?--I mean this case?”
”It is yours.”
She opened it daintily.
”Oh, C. Bailey, Junior!” she said very gently. ”You mustn't do this!”
”Why?”
”It's _too_ beautiful. Isn't it?”
”Nonsense, Athalie. Here, I'll wind it and set it for you. This is how it works--” pulling out the jewelled lever and setting it by the tin alarm-clock on the mantel. Then he wound it, unclasped the woven gold wrist-band, took her reluctant hand, and, clasping the jewel over her wrist, snapped the catch.
For a few moments her fair head remained bent as she gazed in silence at the tiny moving hands. Then, looking up:
”Thank you, C. Bailey, Junior,” she said, a little solemnly perhaps.
He laughed, somewhat conscious of the slight constraint: ”You're welcome, Athalie. Do you really like it?”
”It is wonderfully beautiful.”