It so happened there were warm springs in the heart of the little Endell Street wine merchant—and imagination too. As he listened to this intemperate outburst he pictured very vividly the event which the small gold-braided bottle was destined to enliven. A man does not spend half his belongings for no purpose, and accordingly he said: “I never wish to disappoint a customer, sir. If you would accept a pint for the price of the half, you would be doing me a service.” But the rancour had not abated, and Wynne replied: “This is a celebration—not a damned charity.” “I see—of course not. Please forgive me,” said the little man, and opening a panelled door he took the tiny bottle from the top of the pyramid and wrapped it up. Wynne placed two shillings and eightpence on the counter, pocketed the parcel, and walked to the door. Arrived there, he turned and came back with an outstretched hand. “You’re a good sort,” he said. “Thank you, sir, and a very merry evening.” They shook hands warmly. At a very special fruiterer’s in Southampton Row Wynne bought a quarter of a pound of hothouse grapes, and argued fiercely with the shop assistant who did not consider the purchase warranted placing the fruit on vine leaves in a basket. He next made his way to a confectioner’s, and forced an entrance as they were putting up the shutters. Here he had a windfall, and secured a small but beautifully iced cake for a shilling, on the double account of the lateness of the hour and a slight crack in the icing. On the pavement outside he counted what remained of his original capital. “One and tenpence—good!” he remarked. 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.” “I want some candles—want ’em tremendously. Know where I could get some?” Appealed to as a specialist, the urchin adopted a professional mien, and paused for consideration. Eventually he said: