On the third finger a jewel glittered; he saw it, conscious of its meaning--but his eyes followed the hand idly heaping up autumn gold, a white slim hand, smoothly fascinating.

Then the little, restless hand swept near to his, almost touching it; and then instinctively he took it in his own, curiously, lifting it a little to consider its nearer loveliness.

Perhaps it was the unexpectedness of it, perhaps it was sheer amazement that left her hand lying idly relaxed like a white petalled blossom in his.

His bearing, too, was so blankly impersonal that for a moment the whole thing appeared inconsequent.

Then, as her hand lay there, scarcely imprisoned, their eyes encountered,--and hers, intensely blue now, considered him without emotion, studied him impersonally without purpose, incuriously acquiescent, indifferently expectant.
After a little while the consciousness of the contact disconcerted her; she withdrew her fingers with an involuntary shiver.
"Is there no chance ?" he asked.
Perplexed with her own emotion, the meaning of his low-voiced question at first escaped her; then, like its own echo, came ringing back in her ears, re-echoed again as he repeated it: "Is there no chance for me, Miss Landis ?" The very revulsion of self-possession returning chilled her; then anger came, quick and hot; then pride.