“Ah. I must write in English. Please tell me. But shall we not go at once, this evanink?”
“We can’t; the reading-room closes at eight.”
“That is very English; well; tell me what I shall write.”
Miriam watched as he wrote with a small quick smoothly moving pencil. The pale gold of the ring was finely chased. The small cluster of tiny soft-toned pearls encircling and curving up to a small point of diamond were set in a circlet of enamel, a marvellous rich deep blue. She had her Emerson ready when the writing was done.
“What is Emerson?” he enquired, sitting back to restore his book to its pocket. “I do not know this writer.” His reared head had again the look of heady singing, young, confronting everything, and with all the stored knowledge that can be given to wealthy youth prepared to meet her precious book. If he did not like it there was something shallow