"Right," I said. For three days I wandered past gold and silversmiths with the ring in my pocket ... and for three days Celia went about without a wedding-ring, and, for all I know, without even her marriage-lines in her muff. And on the fourth day I walked boldly in. "I want," I said, "a wedding-ring engraved," and I felt in my pockets. "Not initials," I said, and I felt in some more pockets, "but--but--" I tried the trousers pockets again. "Well, look here, I'll be quite frank with you. I--er--want--" I fumbled in my ticket-pocket, "I want 'I love you' on it," and I went through the waistcoat pockets a third time. "'I--er--love you.'" "Me?" said the shopman, surprised. "I love you," I repeated mechanically. "I love you. I love you, I--Well, look here, perhaps I'd better go back and get the ring." On the next day I was there again; but there was a different man behind the counter. "I want this ring engraved," I said. "Certainly. What shall we put?" I had felt the question coming. I had a sort of instinct that he would ask me that. But I couldn't get the words out again. "Well," I hesitated, "I--er--well." "Ladies often like the date put in. When is it to be?" "When is what to be?" "The wedding," he smiled. "It has been," I said. "It's all over. You're too late for it." I gave myself up to thought. At all costs I must be original. There must be something on Celia's wedding-ring that had never been in any other's.... There was only one thing I could think of. * * * * * The engraved ring arrived as we were at tea a few days later, and I had a sudden overwhelming fear that Celia would not be pleased. I saw that I must explain it to her. After all, there was a distinguished precedent. "Come into the bath-room a moment," I said, and I led the way. She followed, wondering. "What is that?" I asked, pointing to a blue thing on the floor. "The bath-mat," she said, surprised. "And what is written on it?" "Why--'bath-mat,' of course." "Of course," I said ... and I handed her the wedding-ring. VI. A FEW GUESTS BAD LORD BLIGHT _(A Moral Story for the Middle-aged)_ I Seated in the well-appointed library of Blight Hall, John Blighter, Seventeenth Earl of Blight, bowed his head in his hands and gave himself up to despair. The day of reckoning had come.