That ring manifestly occupied her thoughts a great deal. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. She could not say a word, much less move. He seemed to have expected them. She waited expectantly. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. A moistened velvet touch found her tongue. Of course, at home there would have been questions. And, whatever you may think, I assure you, Jack's a downright goodnatured fellow.
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