The Annam Jewel by Patricia Wentworth

whisper, and he looked past Rose Ellen without seeing her. He was seeing Sylvia and the Jewel, the Jewel and Sylvia; each the only one in the world, the heart’s desire of men.
    Rose Ellen looked at him with troubled eyes. She said at last in a small, low voice:
    â€œIs she fond of you, Peter?”
    Peter exclaimed and flung out an impatient hand.
    â€œYou don’t understand a bit,” he said. “You talk as if she was just an ordinary sort of girl. I don’t expect her to be fond of me. I don’t expect her to be fond of anyone. You wouldn’t talk about a queen being fond of the people who—who think it an honour to serve her, would you? She’s like that.”
    â€œIsn’t she fond of people, then?” said Rose Ellen.
    â€œI tell you she’s like a queen or a princess. People ought to wait on her, and do things because of her, and—and love her frightfully, of course.”
    â€œShe isn’t fond of people, then?” said Rose Ellen, still with those troubled eyes.
    â€œShe’s like a jewel,” said Peter; “she’s like a beautiful, shining jewel.”
    Rose Ellen was silent. She slipped the plaited ring on to one of her fingers, and then, very slowly, she pulled it off again. She looked at Peter, and saw his eyes full of something which hurt.
    She said, “Oh, Peter, is she?” and then, “Peter, I don’t like jewels much.”
    Peter stared at her, all angry scorn.
    â€œYou little mug, you don’t know what you’re talking about!”
    Rose Ellen nodded wisely. Her hands clasped one another very tight.
    â€œI do. I do,” she said. “Dearest has lots, and, indeed, I don’t like them—not very much, Peter de—ah. They’re hard, and they’re cold, and the colour in them doesn’t change. They’re not like flowers.”
    â€œOf course they’re not,” said Peter. “Who wants them to be?”
    â€œI do,” said Rose Ellen. “I would like them much better if they were flowers. I like things to be soft, and to smell sweet like flowers do. I think I don’t really like jewels at all, Peter de—ah.”
    Peter laughed rather angrily.
    â€œYou’re just a little, stupid thing that doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he said. “But then you haven’t seen Sylvia. If you did see her, you’d simply adore her.”
    Rose Ellen did not speak, she played with her plaited ring. After a long pause Peter said under his breath:
    â€œRose Ellen, can you keep a secret?”
    Rose Ellen nodded.
    â€œSure? Girls are such awful blabs.”
    â€œI’m not,” she said.
    â€œYou’d tell your Mrs. Mortimer.”
    She shook her head again.
    â€œPromise, then.”
    She frowned.
    â€œI won’t promise. I said I wouldn’t tell.”
    â€œBetter promise, to make sure.”
    She shook her head.
    â€œLittle mug!”
    He caught her hand and squeezed it teasingly. For a moment he was the old Peter again, her Peter.
    â€œLittle obstinate mug. Won’t promise, won’t tell?”
    â€œI won’t tell, Peter de—ah,” said Rose Ellen very seriously.
    He told her all he knew about the Annam Jewel.
    Rose Ellen listened, looking down at him as he lay propped on his elbows, his chin resting between two large fists, his eyes looking past Rose Ellen and the orchard, on through the years.
    â€œWhen I am twenty-five …” he said, and broke off.
    â€œYes, Peter?”
    He started, threw a fleeting glance at her, hesitated, and said, frowning:
    â€œWhen I am twenty-five I shall marry Sylvia, and give her the Jewel to wear.”
    It was out of his inmost heart that he spoke. Rose Ellen knew that. She said:
    â€œIt’s a long time till you’re twenty-five, Peter de—ah.”
    Peter said nothing. After a long minute he made a sudden movement and buried his face in Rose Ellen’s