"A much better way. I keep it here," holding
up the bent little finger of her left hand. It had a
clumsy silver ring on it, square and thick in the middle,
bearing deep-cut Sanskrit letters. "It is a dear little
alternative," she went on, "like a bit of brown sugar.
Rather a nice taste, I believe,--and no pain. When I am
quite tired of it all I shall use this, I think. My idea is
that it's weak to wait until you can't help it. Besides, I
could never bear to become--less attractive than I am now."
"Poison!" said Mr. Golightly Ticke, with an involuntarily
horrified face. Elfrida's hand was hanging over the edge
of the table, and he made as if he would examine the ring
without the formality of asking leave.
She drew her fingers away instantly. "In the vernacular,"
she answered coolly. "You may not touch it."
"I beg your pardon. But how awfully chic!"
"It _is_ chic, isn't it? Not so very old, you know."
Elfrida raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips a little.
"It came from Persia. They still do things like that in
those delightful countries. And I've had it tested.
There's enough to--satisfy--three people. When you are
quite sure you want it I don't mind sharing with you.
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