“I have never seen such beautiful diamonds,” she said simply.
There were other presents to be opened and examined. For the invitations had not been sent out, and many were willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of being mentioned among the guests. It is, one finds, after the invitations have been issued that the presents begin to fall off.
But on this particular morning the other presents fell on barren ground. Millicent only half heeded them. She could not lay the diamond crescent finally aside. Some people have the power of imparting a little piece of their individuality to their letters, and even to a commonplace gift. Sir John was beginning to have this power over Millicent. She was rapidly falling into a stupid habit of feeling uneasy whenever she thought of him. She was vaguely alarmed at his uncompromising adherence to the position he had assumed. She had never failed yet to work her will with men--young and old--by a pretty persistence, a steady flattery, a subtle pleading manner. But Sir John had met all her wiles with his adamantine smile. He would not openly declare himself an enemy--which she argued to herself would have been much nicer of him. He was merely a friend of her aunt's, and from that contemplative position he never stepped down. She could not quite make out what he was “driving at,” as she herself put it. He never found fault, but she knew that his disapproval of her was the result of long and careful study. Perhaps in her heart--despite all her contradictory arguments--she knew that he was right.
“I wonder,” she said half-aloud, taking up the crescent again, “why he sent it to me?”
Lady Cantourne, who was writing letters at a terrible rate, glanced sharply up. She was beginning to be aware of Millicent's unspoken fear of Sir John. Moreover, she was clever enough to connect it with her niece's daily increasing love for the man who was soon to be her husband.
“Well,” she answered, “I should be rather surprised if he gave you nothing.”
There was a little pause, only broken by the scratching of Lady Cantourne's quill pen.
“Auntie!” exclaimed the girl suddenly, “why does he hate me? You have known him all your life--you must know why he hates me so.”