"What sort of a ring?"
"Something nace. They'll show you in the shop."
"Of course. I 'spose I got to take it to 'er, eh? Put it on her finger."
"Oh, no! Send it. Much better."
"Ah!" said Kipps, for the first time, with a note of relief.
"Then, 'ow about this call—on Mrs. Walshingham, I mean. 'Ow ought one to go?"
"Rather a ceremonial occasion," reflected Coote.
"Wadyer mean? Frock coat?"
"I think so," said Coote, with discrimination.
"Light trousers and all that?"
"Yes."
"Rose?"
"I think it might run to a buttonhole."
The curtain that hung over the future became less opaque to the eyes of Kipps. To-morrow, and then other days, became perceptible at least as existing. Frock coat, silk hat and a rose! With a certain solemnity he contemplated himself in the process of slow transformation into an English gentleman, Arthur Cuyps, frock-coated on occasions of ceremony, the familiar acquaintance of Lady Punnet, the recognised wooer of a distant connection of the Earl of Beaupres.
Something like awe at the magnitude of his own fortune came upon him. He felt the world was opening out like a magic flower in a transformation scene at the touch of this wand of gold. And Helen,
