The red and green lights of a chemist lured him to enter, and he emerged, after a period of exquisite indecision, with two elegant packages—one containing a tablet of soap, and the other a tiny bottle of perfume.
Carrying his treasures with prodigious care he hastened toward his rooms, but had hardly covered half the distance when an appalling thought occurred to him. Under the weight of it he stopped short, and beat his forehead with a closed fist.
“I’ve forgotten the candles,” he gasped. “The fairy candles—the twenty-one candles!”
Without those twenty-one candles the whole affair would be flat and meaningless. In being able to obtain them reposed the success of the scheme. He tried an oilshop, but without success—he tried another with the same result.
“My God!” he exclaimed in an ecstasy of anxiety, “where can I get the things?”
And the good angel who listens for such prayers heard, and sent toward him a small boy of pleasing exterior who whistled gaily.
“I say,” said Wynne, “ever had a Christmas-tree?”
The boy grinned and nodded.
“One with candles on it, I mean—coloured candles?”
“Yus, it was a proper tree.”