The design swirled across the length of the oval. Diana, slung with bow and quiver, drove her chariot through the vast expanse of sky. The legs of the team curved out in a gallop, their necks were arched, their manes flying. The goddess leaned back, her banded curls and semi-transparent draperies streaming behind her. Below and behind sailed a solitary star. The sweep of the design at first took all Brett’s attention; but in detail also it was very fine. The goddess’s features were quite distinct, and decidedly chaste and fair.

“You like that one?” The voice of Mr. Emmanuel spoke beside him.

“Yes,” said Brett, looking up with a start. He laid the brooch on the case.

“It is a fine example of carving,” said Mr. Emmanuel, taking it up. “Good shell, too. Well fitted to the subject. That dark greyish colour is right for the night sky. A lot of them would be too brown.”

He held it to the light to demonstrate how thin it was, and the carving appeared in reverse like black tracery. Brett shivered. Christina must not be allowed to leave this one on the piano.

“No frame, of course,” went on Mr. Emmanuel.

“What’s that, then?”

“Well, that just holds it and supports the pin, really. Compare it with this.” Mr. Emmanuel pointed out a monstrous circle of chased yellow gold which seemed to crush the central cameo inwards.

“That’s exactly what I didn’t want,” said Brett. He smiled at Miss Cole, to let both her and Mr. Emmanuel know where he bestowed credit for the satisfaction of his wishes; but she was looking away from him. He drew out his cheque book. “How much?” he asked, writing the date.

“Fifteen pounds,” said Mr. Emmanuel, after the tiniest pause. “You’ve less gold to pay for than people who prefer more substantial frames. Shall we parcel it for you?” he concluded, with a little edge to his voice.

“Yes,” said Brett, smothering an over emphatic of course. Mr. Emmanuel’s trained eye must have seen that his pen hovered an instant too long before descending again on the cheque. Quickly he wrote Majendie’s name, the price, his signature and his address on the back. The cheque passed into Mr. Emmanuel’s discreet hand. In return he received an almost weightless package neatly wrapped by Miss Cole. The transaction was made.

Forcing himself to shake off a certain uneasiness, Brett thanked the girl. For once, she was looking straight at him; and, he felt, with some curiosity. He smiled determinedly, to see if he could not break her seriousness. But at that moment Mr. Emmanuel waved her away.

“Fine weather,” he observed, handing the cheque to a passing assistant with a look that urged him to despatch. “I shall be surprised if it holds, though. When that sky covers we’ll have to look out for snow. White Christmas, if we’re lucky.”