She leaned her head out of the window to catch a glimpse of the
oleanders on Bayou Road, when her attention was caught by a
conversation in the car.
"Yes, it's too bad for Neale, and lately married too," said the
elder man. "I can't see what he is to do."
Neale! She pricked up her ears. That was the name of the groom
in the Jesuit Church.
"How did it happen?" languidly inquired the younger. He was a
stranger, evidently; a stranger with a high regard for the
faultlessness of male attire.
"Well, the firm failed first; he didn't mind that much, he was so
sure of his uncle's inheritance repairing his lost fortunes; but
suddenly this difficulty of identification springs up, and he is
literally on the verge of ruin."
"Won't some of you fellows who've known him all your lives do to
identify him?"
"Gracious man, we've tried; but the absurd old will expressly
stipulates that he shall be known only by a certain quaint Roman
ring, and unless he has it, no identification, no fortune. He
has given the ring away, and that settles it."
"Well, you 're all chumps. Why doesn't he get the ring from the
owner?"
"Easily said; but--it seems that Neale had some little Creole
love-affair some years ago, and gave this ring to his dusky-eyed
fiancee. You know how Neale is with his love-affairs, went off
and forgot the girl in a month. It seems, however, she took it
to heart,--so much so that he's ashamed to try to find her or the
ring.
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