"Cease, babblers," I said. "In earlier and less conjugal days no wedding was considered complete without my silver candlesticks. It was all so simple, too. I called at Gillingham's, wrote out a card, gave an address, and away went the present. And what's more, they all wrote back and said it was the one thing they had been longing for."
"Oh," said the lady of the house, "they'll write like that about anything. At any rate, we won't have candlesticks. They're quite useless now, you know. Nobody has candles."
"And that," I said, "is what makes candlesticks so valuable. There's nothing base and utilitarian about them. They are appreciated for their beauty, and there's an end of them. Do, do let me buy a pair for George Henderson."
"No," she said; "the whole of the rest of the silversmith's art is open to you, but we will not have candlesticks."
"I told you so," said Rosie to Helen.
In the afternoon, accordingly, I wandered into the establishment of Messrs. Gillingham, jewellers, goldsmiths and silversmiths, and heaven knows what besides. For a few moments I steeped myself in the glittering magnificence of the objects displayed around me. Then a polite and very well-dressed young man—not my usual one, but a stranger—spoke to me.
"Are you being attended to, Sir?" he said.
"No," I said, "not yet. I'm not quite ready for it. Still, I may as well begin."
"Yes, Sir."
"What," I said, pointing to a diamond tiara, "is the price of that?"