worth anything at all—why, you're only the more welcome to them.'
Charlotte had now in her hand a small bag of faded, figured silk—one of those antique conveniences that speak to us, in the terms of evaporated camphor and lavender, of the part they have played in some personal history; but, though she had for the first time drawn the string, she looked much more at the young man than at the questionable treasure it appeared to contain. 'I shall like them. They're all I have.'
'All you have———?'
'That belonged to her.'
He swelled a little, then looked about him as if to appeal—as against her avidity—to the whole poor place. 'Well, what else do you want?'
'Nothing. Thank you very much.' With which she bent her eyes on the article wrapped, and now only exposed, in her superannuated satchel—a necklace of large pearls, such as might once have graced the neck of a provincial Ophelia and borne company to a flaxen wig. 'This perhaps is worth something. Feel it.' And she passed him the necklace, the weight of which she had gathered for a moment into her hand.
He measured it in the same way with his own, but remained quite detached. 'Worth at most thirty shillings.'
'Not more?'
'Surely not if it's paste?'
'But is it paste?'
He gave a small sniff of impatience. 'Pearls nearly as big as filberts?'
'But they're heavy,' Charlotte declared.
'No heavier than anything else.' And he gave them back with an allowance for her simplicity. 'Do you imagine for a moment they're real?'
She studied them a little, feeling them, turning them round. 'Mightn't they possibly be?'
'Of that size—stuck away with that trash?'
