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As soon as we were in the parlour, before we had taken off our coats, she said resolutely: “Myra, I want to give Oswald a Christmas present. Once an old friend left with me some cuff-links he couldn’t keep—unpleasant associations, I suppose. I thought of giving them to one of my own boys, but I brought them for Oswald. I’d rather he would have them than anybody.”
Aunt Lydia spoke with an ease and conviction which compelled my admiration. She took the buttons out of her muff, without the box, of course, and laid them in Mrs. Henshawe’s hand.
Mrs. Henshawe was delighted. “How clever of you to think of it, Liddy, dear! Yes, they’re exactly right for him. There’s hardly any other stone I would like, but these are exactly right. Look, Oswald, they’re the colour of a fine Moselle.” It was Oswald himself who seemed disturbed, and not overpleased. He grew red, was confused in his remarks, and was genuinely reluctant when his wife insisted upon taking the
