FullReads

“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s ‘Mizpah,’ or ‘Ichabod,’ or ‘Habakkuk.’ I’m sure there’s a word you put on rings–I expect they’d know at the shop.”

“But I don’t want what they know at shops. It must be something quite private and special.”

“But the shop has got to know about it when I tell them. And I don’t like telling strange men in shops private and special things about ourselves. I love you, Celia, but–“

“That would be a lovely thing,” she said, clasping her hands eagerly.

“What?”

“‘I love you, Celia.'”

I looked at her aghast.

“Do you want me to order that in cold blood from the shopman?”

“He wouldn’t mind. Besides, if he saw us together he’d probably know. You aren’t afraid of a goldsmith, are you?”

“I’m not afraid of any goldsmith living–or goldfish either, if it come to that. But I should prefer to be sentimental in some other language than plain English. I could order ‘Cars sposa,’ or–or ‘Spaghetti,’ or anything like that, without a tremor.”

“But of course you shall put just whatever you like. Only–only let it be original. Not Mizpahs.”

“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.