"Hullo! have you come to lunch?" Hardyman asked, roughly.
"I have come here, sir, with a little gift for Miss Isabel, in honor of
her marriage," Moody answered quietly, "and I ask your permission to
put it on the table, so that she may see it when your guests sit down to
luncheon."
He opened a jeweler's case as he spoke, containing a plain gold bracelet
with an inscription engraved on the inner side: "To Miss Isabel Miller,
with the sincere good wishes of Robert Moody."
Plain as it was, the design of the bracelet was unusually beautiful.
Hardyman had noticed Moody's agitation on the day when he had met Isabel
near her aunt's house, and had drawn his own conclusions from it. His
face darkened with a momentary jealousy as he looked at the bracelet.
"All right, old fellow!" he said, with contemptuous familiarity. "Don't
be modest. Wait and give it to her with your own hand."
"No, sir," said Moody "I would rather leave it, if you please, to speak
for itself."
Hardyman understood the delicacy of feeling which dictated those words,
and, without well knowing why, resented it. He was on the point of
speaking, under the influence of this unworthy motive, when Isabel's
voice reached his ears, calling to him from the cottage.
Moody's face contracted with a sudden expression of pain as he, too,
recognized the voice. "Don't let me detain you, sir," he said, sadly.
"Good-morning!"
Hardyman left him without ceremony. Moody, slowly following, entered the
tent.
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