Broken up—the words released in his mind, like the harmonics of a note, the simultaneous images of Christina’s cameo and Christina’s Christmas present. The juxtaposition at once seemed so inevitable that he couldn’t think how it had not struck him sooner.

“Do you have cameos for sale?” he asked Majendie, hardly aware of what he was doing.

“Shell?”

“What?”

“Did you mean shell cameos?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Nightingale humbly, as Majendie put his head to one side in an incredulous manner. “Just an ordinary cameo,” he explained lamely.

“Ah yes, a shell, no doubt,” said Mr. Majendie. He pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a box. “Now this,” he said, lifting the lid and removing a large ring, “is an example of a cameo agate. Cameo is the term for carving in relief on any gem or stone. Here, you see, the layers of colour aid the relief.” He handed the ring to Nightingale.

It was very handsome, he thought; the gold heavy and reddish, the carved head of a Roman-looking man extremely delicate in tiny detail. “It isn’t really Roman, the stone?” he asked.

“No—a Renaissance imitation of an ancient model, and the hoop early nineteenth century. But try it, Mr. Nightingale.”

“Good heavens,” said Nightingale hastily, “I didn’t want to—I mean, I hope you don’t think I’m doing more than admire this in detachment.”

“My dear sir, of course not!” expostulated Mr. Majendie in shocked tones. “But do try it—after all, why not, while you have an opportunity?”

Nightingale obeyed. It fitted him well, and he liked it.

“Very fine, Mr. Nightingale, very fine,” cried Mr. Majendie, as though he were applauding. “You have an excellent hand for a ring. Come, come, don’t take it off. To my mind a ring on a large, well-shaped hand, especially where the fingers are long in proportion to their breadth, as yours are, a suitable ring, I say, is a manly ornament which emphasises the strength of the hand.”

That was all very flattering, Nightingale thought. On imagining the stare with which Beddoes would greet the flaunting of a ring, he grew hot. What was that other coloured stone on Majendie’s list? Purpurin. It was an apt material, he felt, with which to compare the present state of his complexion. He handed back the ring.

“But you were saying,” said Majendie, “that you were interested in shell cameos.”