“Why, so it is, ma’am!” he replied, raising his brows in mild surprise.

“How comes this about? Your father’s ring was delivered to you by your cousin’s hand I do not know how many months ago! All the Earls of St. Erth have worn it, for five generations — I daresay more!”

“Yes, I prefer my own,” said the Earl tranquilly.

“Upon my word!” the Dowager ejaculated, her bosom swelling. “I have not misunderstood you, I suppose! You prefer a trumpery ring of your own to an heirloom!”

“I wonder,” mused the Earl, pensively regarding his ring, “whether some Earl of St. Erth as yet unborn — my great-great-grandson, perhaps — will be told the same, when he does not choose to wear this ring of mine?”

A high colour mounted to the Dowager’s cheeks; before she could speak, however, the matter-of-fact voice of Miss Morville made itself heard. “Very likely,” she said. “Modes change, you know, and what one generation may admire another will frequently despise. My Mama, for instance, has a set of garnets which I consider quite hideous, and shan’t know what to do with, when they belong to me.”

“Filial piety will not force you to wear them, Miss Morville?”

“I shouldn’t think it would,” she responded, giving the matter some consideration.

“Your Mama’s garnets, my dear Drusilla — no doubt very pretty in their way! — can scarcely be compared to the Frant ring!” said the Dowager. “I declare, when I hear St. Erth saying that he prefers some piece of trumpery — ”

“No, no, I never said so!” interrupted the Earl. “You really must not call it trumpery, my dear ma’am! A very fine emerald, cut to my order. I daresay you might never see just such another, for they are rare, you know. I am informed that there is considerable difficulty experienced in cutting them to form signets.”