"At last," I said, putting down my newspaper, "there is hope for
England. Here is a man who announces his approaching marriage and
hopes that wedding presents will not be sent."
"Pooh," said the lady of the house.
"Why," said I, "do you say 'pooh'?"
"Because," she said, "it's not a bit of good hoping for anything of,
the sort. You might just as well abolish weddings at once. People
won't go to one unless they have a chance of seeing their own present
and admiring it so much that the detective begins to suspect them."
"Yes," I said, "isn't the detective splendid? Nobody ever fails
to spot him, and yet there he is every time, firmly convinced
that everybody takes him for the bridegroom's uncle or the bride's
godfather by a former marriage, or something of that sort. I really do
feel I couldn't do without the detective."
"There you are," she said. "You can't have the detective without the
presents."
"Very well," I said, "we'll let presents go on a bit longer and chance
it."
"And don't you forget," she said firmly, "that you've got to choose a
present for George Henderson to-day."
"George Henderson?" I said dreamily. "Do you think George Henderson
_wants_ a present? Isn't he the sort which 'hopes that wedding
presents will not be sent'? I've always felt he had a look in his eye
which said, 'Dear old chap, I shall be married some day.--Whatever you
do, don't send me a present.' Haven't you felt that about him, too?"
"No," she said, "I haven't. In fact George has always seemed to me
the very man for a present. And now he's going to be married. It's the
chance of a lifetime."
"Well, then," I said, "if you feel like that _you_ ought to buy the
present. You'll do it better. You'll put more real feeling into it."
"That may be," she said, "but you 're going to London, and I'm not.
You'll have to do it this time."
"Oh, very well," I said; "have it your own way; but I warn you I shall
buy silver candlesticks."
The two elder girls, who had been listening with eager interest, now
broke in.
"Dad," said Helen to Rosie, "is going to try for his old
candlesticks."
"Yes," said Rosie; "but you'll see he won't be allowed."
"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?"
Two ladies who were making a purchase turned round and gazed at me
with an awe-struck but approving look. The young man was evidently
much impressed.
"That," he said, "is one of our newest designs. The stones are all
specially selected. The price"--he studied the little tag attached to
it--"the price is L1,050; very cheap for the value."
"It is," I said, "wonderfully cheap. I can't think how you manage to
do it. I will think about it. In the meantime I should like to see
something smaller and not quite so valuable."
"Is it a wedding present, Sir?"
"Don't," I said, "let us call it a wedding present just yet." If we
do it's sure to turn out a sugar-sifter. Let's think of it as a mere
gift."
"Yes, Sir."
"Of course we may find that the man to whom we're going to give it is
about to be married, but that will be only the long arm, won't it?"
"The--I beg your pardon, Sir;"
"A coincidence, you know; and we're not the men to be put off by
coincidences, are we?"
"No, Sir. Would you like to see the manager, Sir?"
"No," I said, "the manager would only confuse me. Show me some silver
inkstands and some sugar-jugs--I mean some claret-sifters--that is,
some silver decanters, you know, and some silver fruit-baskets."
"Yes, Sir." He went away and returned with an inkstand.
"This," he said, "is a very favourite pattern. It combines a large
inkpot and a match-stand and a rack for the pens----"
"I know," I said; "they never stay in it."
"No, Sir. And there's a little candlestick for sealing-wax----"
"I'll have it," I said feverishly. "Put it aside for me at once. This
is really a most remarkable piece of luck."
"Yes, Sir. Anything else?"
"Yes," I said. "I'll have a sugar-sifter, too. Any sugar-sifter will
do. I'm only doing it as a concession."
"Yes, Sir. Where shall I send them?"
I gave the address with great gusto, and when I reported the result
of my labours at home I said nothing about the little candlestick. The
mere joy of having bought it was enough for me. Thus George Henderson
received from us his fifth inkstand and his seventh sugar-sifter. He
wrote and said that they were the two things he had most been wishing
for.