A sense of loneliness came to
me.
Perhaps I should say that it became complete. I had grown
conscious of its approach at the very moment that the cadaverous
white-haired man had addressed me. There was a quality in his
steadfast gaze and in his oddly pitched deep voice which from the
first had wrapped me about--as though he were cloaking me in his
queer personality and withdrawing me from the common plane.
Having stared for some moments at the object in my palm, I
touched it gingerly; whereupon my acquaintance laughed--a short
bass laugh.
"It looks fragile," he said. "But have no fear. It is nearly as
hard as a diamond."
Thus encouraged, I took the thing up between finger and thumb,
and held it before my eyes. For long enough I looked at it, and
looking, my wonder grew. I thought that here was the most
wonderful example of the lapidary's art which I had ever met
with, east or west.
It was a tiny pink rose, no larger than the nail of my little
finger. Stalk and leaves were there, and golden pollen lay in
its delicate heart. Each fairy-petal blushed with June fire; the
frail leaves were exquisitely green. Withal it was as hard and
unbendable as a thing of steel.
"Allow me," said the masterful voice.
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