There was always that something regardless in him which
terrified her. She suddenly felt he might kill her, by making some
dreadful accident with the motor-car. For a moment she was stony with
fear.
'Isn't it rather dangerous, the way you drive?' she asked him.
'No, it isn't dangerous,' he said. And then, after a pause: 'Don't you
like the yellow ring at all?'
It was a squarish topaz set in a frame of steel, or some other similar
mineral, finely wrought.
'Yes,' she said, 'I do like it. But why did you buy these rings?'
'I wanted them. They are second-hand.'
'You bought them for yourself?'
'No. Rings look wrong on my hands.'
'Why did you buy them then?'
'I bought them to give to you.'
'But why? Surely you ought to give them to Hermione! You belong to
her.'
He did not answer. She remained with the jewels shut in her hand. She
wanted to try them on her fingers, but something in her would not let
her. And moreover, she was afraid her hands were too large, she shrank
from the mortification of a failure to put them on any but her little
finger.
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