To the practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very different air. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. It amounted to two-and-twenty pounds. It shall be your wedding ring. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. She had a compartment to herself in the train from London to Morningside Park, and she sat with both her feet on the seat in an attitude that would certainly have distressed her mother to see, and horrified her grandmother beyond measure; she sat with her knees up to her chin and her hands clasped before them, and she was so lost in thought that she discovered with a start, from a lettered lamp, that she was at Morningside Park, and thought she was moving out of the station, whereas she was only moving in. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean.
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