And taking from the open desk the little box, I put it into his hand.
"It lay ready in my lap this morning," I continued; "and if Monsieur had been rather more patient, and Mademoiselle St. Pierre less interfering—perhaps I should say, too, if I had been calmer and wiser—I should have given it then."
He looked at the box: I saw its clear warm tint and bright azure circlet, pleased his eye. I told him to open it.
"My initials!" said he, indicating the letters in the lid. "Who told you I was called Carl David?"
"A little bird, monsieur."
"Does it fly from me to you? Then one can tie a message under its wing when needful?"
He took out the chain—a trifle indeed as to value, but glossy with silk and sparkling with beads. He liked that too—admired it artlessly, like a child.
"For me?"
"Yes, for you."
"This is the thing you were working at last night?"
"The same."
"You finished it this morning?"
"I did."
