“They look very bright,” said Jericho.
“Bright, my dear! Why, as Miss Candituft observed, they are positively scintillations of the sun. Bright! Why”—and Mrs. Jericho waved the jewels to and fro—“there’s no looking at them.”
“What will be the use of wearing ’em, then?” asked the apathetic Jericho.
“My dear, how very literal you are. Why, I thought you’d be delighted to see them,” said Mrs. Jericho.
“I am; very much delighted,” and Jericho looked at the gems with as much light in his eye as would have been reflected therein from so many pewter buttons. “Very fine; whose are they?”
“Whose are they!” cried Mrs. Jericho. “What a question! Why, whose should they be?”
“I’m the worst of all men at a riddle,” said Jericho. “I can’t guess.”
“Why, Mr. Jericho, they are your wife’s—of course,” cried the majestic owner, with proud emphasis.
“How did you get ’em?” inquired the frigid husband.
“What a question to ask a woman in London! My dear Jericho—ha! ha!—why, my good man, what is the matter with you? I thought you’d be delighted with my taste. Any other man would be proud of his wife, with such a choice. Eh, Mr. Candituft?”