It will occupy a chapter to itself in my forthcoming work on “Historic Stones,” where full details of its weight, size, color, and value may be found.  At present I am going to relate an incident in its history which, for obvious reasons, will not be published—­which, in fact, I trust the reader will consider related in strict confidence.

I had never seen the stone itself when I began to write about it, and it was not till one evening last spring, while staying with my nephew, Sir Thomas Acton, that I came within measurable distance of it.  A dinner party was impending, and, at my instigation, the Bishop of Northchurch and Miss Panton, his daughter and heiress, were among the invited guests.

The dinner was a particularly good one, I remember that distinctly.  In fact, I felt myself partly responsible for it, having engaged the new cook—­a talented young Italian, pupil of the admirable old chef at my club.  We had gone over the menu carefully together, with a result refreshing in its novelty, but not so daring as to disturb the minds of the innocent country guests who were bidden thereto.

The first spoonful of soup was reassuring, and I looked to the end of the table to exchange a congratulatory glance with Leta.  What was amiss?  No response.  Her pretty face was flushed, her smile constrained, she was talking with quite unnecessary empressement to her neighbor, Sir Harry Landor, though Leta is one of those few women who understand the importance of letting a man settle down tranquilly and with an undisturbed mind to the business of dining, allowing no topic of serious interest to come on before the releves, and reserving mere conversational brilliancy for the entremets.

Guests all right?  No disappointments?  I had gone through the list with her, selecting just the right people to be asked to meet the Landors, our new neighbors.  Not a mere cumbrous county gathering, nor yet a showy imported party from town, but a skillful blending of both.  Had anything happened already?  I had been late for dinner and missed the arrivals in the drawing-room.  It was Leta’s fault.  She has got into a way of coming into my room and putting the last touches to my toilet.  I let her, for I am doubtful of myself nowadays after many years’ dependence on the best of valets.  Her taste is generally beyond dispute, but to-day she had indulged in a feminine vagary that provoked me and made me late for dinner.

“Are you going to wear your sapphire, Uncle Paul!” she cried in a tone of dismay.  “Oh, why not the ruby?”

“You would have your way about the table decorations,” I gently reminded her.  “With that service of Crown Derby repousse and orchids, the ruby would look absolutely barbaric.  Now if you would have had the Limoges set, white candles, and a yellow silk center—­”

“Oh, but—­I’m so disappointed—­I wanted the bishop to see your ruby—­or one of your engraved gems—­”