“Well, I can give you no history of them,” he said—­“A friend of mine bought the collar from an old Jew curiosity dealer in a back street of Florence and sent it to me to wear with a Florentine dress at a fancy dress ball.  Curiously enough I chose to represent one of the Medicis, some artist having told me my features resembled their type of countenance.  That’s the chronicle, so far as I am concerned.  I rather liked it on account of its antiquity.  I could have sold it many times over, but I have no desire to part with it.”

“Naturally!”—­and Santoris passed on the collar to everyone to examine—­“You feel a sense of proprietorship in it.”

Catherine Harland had the trinket in her hand, and a curious vague look of terror came over her face as she presently passed it back to its owner.  But she made no remark and it was Mr. Harland who resumed the conversation.

“That’s an odd idea of yours about unhappy jewels,” he said—­ “Perhaps the misfortune attending the possessors of the famous blue Hope diamond could be traced to some early tragedy connected with it.”

“Unquestionably!” replied Santoris.  “Now look at this!”—­and he drew from his watch pocket a small fine gold chain to which was attached a moonstone of singular size and beauty, set in a circle of diamonds—­“Here is a sort of talismanic jewel—­it has never known any disastrous influences, nor has it been disturbed by malevolent surroundings.  It is a perfectly happy, unsullied gem!  As you see, the lustre is perfect—­as clear as that of a summer moon in heaven.  Yet it is a very old jewel and has seen more than a thousand years of life.”

We all examined the beautiful ornament, and as I held it in my hand a moment it seemed to emit tiny sparks of luminance like a flash of moonlight on rippling waves.

“Women should take care that their jewels are made happy,” he continued, looking at me with a slight smile, “That is, if they want them to shine.  Nothing that lives is at its best unless it is in a condition of happiness—­a condition which after all is quite easy to attain.”

“Easy!  I should have thought nothing was so difficult!” said Mr. Harland.

“Nothing certainly is so difficult in the ordinary way of life men choose to live,” answered Santoris—­“For the most part they run after the shadow and forsake the light.  Even in work and the creative action of thought each ordinary man imagines that his especial work being all-important, it is necessary for him to sacrifice everything to it.  And he does,—­if he is filled with worldly ambition and selfish concentration; and he produces something—­anything—­which frequently proves to be ephemeral as gossamer dust.  It is only when work is the outcome of a great love and keen sympathy for others that it lasts and keeps its influence.  Now we have talked enough about all these theories, which are not interesting to anyone who is not prepared to accept them—­shall we go up on deck?”