A gentleman drove up to a Princes Street jeweller’s in a carriage or a cab—the jeweller was not sure which, but inclined to think that it was a private carriage—in broad daylight, and at the most fashionable hour. He was rather a pretty-faced young man, of the languid Lord Dundreary type, with long, soft whiskers, which he stroked fondly during the interview with the tradesman, and wore fine clothes of the newest cut with the air of one who was utterly exhausted with the trouble of displaying his own wealth and beauty. He wore patent boots fitting him like a glove, and appeared particularly vain of his neat foot and the valuable rings on his white fingers. When this distinguished customer had been accommodated with a seat by the jeweller—whom I may name Mr Ward—he managed to produce a card-case, and then dropped a card bearing the name of Samuel Whitmore. The address at the corner at once gave the jeweller a clear idea of the identity of his customer. The Whitmores were a wealthy family, having an estate of considerable size in the West, and had, in addition to the fine house on that estate, a town residence in Edinburgh and another in England. There was a large family of them, but only one son; and that gentleman the jeweller now understood he had the pleasure of seeing before him. He was said to be a fast young man, with no great intellect, but traits of that kind are not so uncommon among the rich as to excite comment among tradesmen. The follies of some are the food of others, and the jeweller was no sooner aware of the identity of his visitor than he mentally decided that he was about to get a good order. He was not disappointed—at least in that particular. “I want your advice and assistance, Mr Ward, as to the best sort of thing to give—ah—to a young lady—you know—as a present,” languidly began the pretty young gentleman. “It must be a real tip-top thing—artistic, pretty, and all that; and you must be willing to take it back if she shouldn’t like it—that is, in exchange for something as good or better.” “Hadn’t we better send a variety of articles to the young lady, and let her choose for herself?” suggested Mr Ward. “Oh, hang it, no!—that would never do,” said Mr Whitmore, with considerable energy. “She’d stick to the lot, you know; women are never satisfied;” and he gave a peculiar wink to convey the idea he wished to express. “You just be good enough to show me the things, and I’ll choose what I think best, and you can send them to the house addressed to me. I’ll take them to her myself to-morrow, and if they don’t suit, I’ll send them back by my valet, or bring them myself.”