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“Did the real ring bear the date of your wedding?”

“Yes … the 23rd of October.”

“And the second?”

“This one has no date.”

He perceived a slight hesitation in her and a confusion which, in point of fact, she did not try to conceal.

“I implore you,” he exclaimed, “don’t hide anything from me…. You see how far we have gone in a few minutes, with a little logic and calmness…. Let us go on, I ask you as a favour.”

“Are you sure,” she said, “that it is necessary?”

“I am sure that the least detail is of importance and that we are nearly attaining our object. But we must hurry. This is a crucial moment.”

“I have nothing to conceal,” she said, proudly raising her head. “It was the most wretched and the most dangerous period of my life. While suffering humiliation at home, outside I was surrounded with attentions, with temptations, with pitfalls, like any woman who is seen to be neglected by her husband. Then I remembered: before my marriage, a man had been in love with me. I had guessed his unspoken love; and he has died since. I had the name of that man engraved inside the ring; and I wore it as a talisman. There was no love in me, because I was the wife of another. But, in my secret heart, there was a memory, a sad dream, something sweet and gentle that protected me….”