I’m not planning to redeem it and keep it, not me. What’d a poor girl like me do with a posh ring like that?”

“Why are you persecuting me? Why do you torment me? I can’t … I can’t. Surely you must understand that. I’ve done all I could, you can see I have. Oh, surely you must understand! Take pity on me!”

“Nobody never took no pity on me. I could’ve starved to death for all anyone cared. Why’d I have pity on a rich lady like you?”

Irene was about to return a forceful answer, but then—and her blood ran cold—she heard the latch of the front door fall into place. It must be her husband coming home from his chambers. Without stopping to think, she snatched the ring from her finger and handed it to the woman waiting there, who swiftly pocketed it.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll be off now,” nodded the woman, perceiving the unspeakable fear in her face and the close attention she was paying to the front hall, where a man’s footsteps were clearly audible. She opened the drawing-room door, and in passing wished good day to Irene’s husband as he came in. He glanced at her for a moment, but did not seem to pay her much attention as she left.

“A lady coming to ask about something,” explained Irene, with the last of her strength, as soon as the door had closed behind the woman. The worst moment was over. Her husband did not reply, but calmly went into the dining room, where the table was already laid for lunch.

Irene could almost feel the air burning the place on her finger that was usually enclosed by the cool circle of her ring. It was as if the bare skin were the mark of a brand that would inevitably attract all eyes. She hid her hand again and again during the meal, and as she did so she was plagued by a curious feeling, the result of nervous strain, that her husband’s glance kept going to that hand, following it in all its wanderings. With all her might, she tried to distract his attention and keep a conversation going by asking constant questions. She talked and talked, to him, to the children, to the governess, again and again she rekindled the conversation with the little flames of her inquiries, but her breath kept running out, it was stifled, it failed her. She did her best to seem in high spirits and persuade the others to be cheerful, she teased the children, egging them on to argue with each other, but they neither argued nor laughed. Even she felt that her cheerfulness must be striking a false note, and it subconsciously alienated them. The harder she tried, the less successful her efforts were. Finally she fell silent, exhausted.

The others were silent too. All she heard was the faint clatter of plates, and inside her the rising voices of her fear. Then, all of a sudden, her husband said: “Where’s your ring today, Irene?”

She started nervously. Deep inside her something said a single phrase. All over! But still she instinctively put up a defence. Summon up all your strength, she told herself. Just for one more sentence, one more word. Find one more lie, a final lie.

“I … I took it to be cleaned.”

And as if the lie itself had strengthened her, she added firmly: “I’m getting it back the day after tomorrow.” The day after tomorrow.