of the thing, you say to yourself, that prevents you from making all your purchases of jewelry in one of these convenient establishments; though, indeed, as their proprietors very aptly remark, five thousand dollars more is a good deal to pay for sentiment. Of this expensive superstition, however, I should have expected Sanguinetti to be guilty.
"You are not going to get a real set?" I asked.
He seemed a little annoyed: "Wouldn't you in that case blow me up for my extravagance?"
"It is highly probable. And yet a present of false jewelry! The handsomer it is, you know, the more ridiculous it is."
"I have thought of that," said my friend, "and I confess I am rather ashamed of myself. I should like to give her a real set. But, you see, I want diamonds and sapphires, and a real set such as I desire would cost about twenty thousand dollars. That's a good deal for—for—" And he paused a moment.
"For a barber's wife," I said to myself.
"Besides," my companion added, "she won't know the difference." I thought he rather under-estimated her intelligence: a pretty Parisienne was, by instinct, a judge of parures. I remembered, however, that he had rarely spoken of this lady's intellectual qualities: he had dwelt exclusively upon her beauty and sweetness. So I stood by him while he
