"I'm not going to be her dog, and creep to her feet, just to give her the pleasure of kicking me--not for you, Em, nor for anybody else." "Oh, I didn't know you had asked her, Greg," said his little betrothed, humbly; and she went away to pour out coffee.
Nevertheless, some time after Gregory found he had shifted so far round the room as to be close to the door where Lyndall sat.

After standing for some time he inquired whether he might not bring her a cup of coffee.
She declined; but still he stood on (why should he not stand there as well as anywhere else ?), and then he stepped into the bedroom.
"May I not bring you a stove, Miss Lyndall, to put your feet on ?" "Thank you." He sought for one, and put it under her feet.
"There is a draught from that broken window: shall I stuff something in the pane ?" "No, we want air." Gregory looked round, but nothing else suggesting itself, he sat down on a box on the opposite side of the door.

Lyndall sat before him, her chin resting in her hand; her eyes, steel-grey by day, but black by night, looked through the doorway into the next room.

After a time he thought she had entirely forgotten his proximity, and he dared to inspect the little hands and neck as he never dared when he was in momentary dread of the eyes being turned upon him.
She was dressed in black, which seemed to take her yet further from the white-clad, gewgawed women about her; and the little hands were white, and the diamond ring glittered.

Where had she got that ring?
He bent forward a little and tried to decipher the letters, but the candle-light was too faint.