She was still sitting by the window, watching the yellow crimson of the
sunset, when some one rapped at her door. A uniformed messenger boy
greeted her when she opened it:
"Package for Miss Hazel Weir."
She signed his delivery sheet. The address on the package was in
Jack's handwriting. A box of chocolates, or some little peace
offering, maybe. That was like Jack when he was sorry for anything.
They had quarreled before--over trifles, too.
She opened it hastily. A swift heart sinking followed. In the small
cardboard box rested a folded scarf, and thrust in it a small gold
stickpin--the only thing she had ever given Jack Barrow. There was no
message. She needed none to understand.
The sparkle of the small diamond on her finger drew her gaze. She
worked his ring over the knuckle, and dropped it on the dresser, where
the face in the silver frame smiled up at her. She stared at the
picture for one long minute fixedly, with unchanging expression, and
suddenly she swept it from the dresser with a savage sweep of her hand,
dashed it on the floor, and stamped it shapeless with her slippered
heel.
"Oh, oh!" she gasped. "I hate you--I hate you! I despise you!"
And then she flung herself across the bed and sobbed hysterically into
a pillow.
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