"You don't recognize it? Has a year of marriage so greatly changed me?
Celia, it is your Ronald! I sat for that, hour after hour, day after; day,
for your sake, Celia. It is not a perfect likeness; in the small space
allotted to him the sculptor has hardly done me justice. But it is your
Ronald.... And there," I added, "is his initial 'r.' Oh, woman, the amount
of thought I spent on that ring!"
She came a little closer and slipped the ring on my finger.
"Spend a little more," she pleaded. "There's plenty of room. Just have
something nice written in it--something about you and me."
"Like 'Pisgah'?"
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. Perhaps it's 'Mizpah,' or 'Ichabod,' or 'Habakkuk.' I'm sure
there's a word you put on rings--I expect they'd know at the shop."
"But I don't want what they know at shops. It must be something quite
private and special."
"But the shop has got to know about it when I tell them. And I don't like
telling strange men in shops private and special things about ourselves. I
love you, Celia, but----"
"That would be a lovely thing," she said, clasping her hands eagerly.
"What?"
"'I love you, Celia.'"