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The next time I saw the “Blue Water” was during the holidays before our last half at Eton.

The occasion was the visit of General Sir Basil Malcolmson, an authority on gems, who was, at the time, Keeper of the Jewel House at the Tower of London, and had, I think, something to do with the British Museum. He had written a “popular” history of the well-known jewels of the world, under the title of Famous Gems, and was now writing a second volume dealing with less-known stones of smaller value.

He had written to ask if he might include an account of the “Blue Water” sapphire and its history.

I gathered from what Claudia had heard her say, that Aunt Patricia was not extraordinarily delighted about it, and that she had replied that she would be very pleased to show Sir Basil the stone; but that very little was known of its history beyond the fact that it had been “acquired” (kindly word) by the seventh Sir Hector Brandon in India in the service of one of the Nawabs or Rajahs of the Deccan, probably Nunjeraj, Sultan of Mysore.

The General was a very interesting talker, and at dinner that night he told us about such stones as the Timour Ruby, the Hope Diamond, and the Stuart Sapphire (which is in the King's crown), until the conversation at times became a monologue, which I, personally, greatly enjoyed.

I remember his telling us that it was he who discovered that the Nadirshah Uncut Emerald was not, as had been supposed, a lump of glass set in cheap and crude Oriental gold-work. It had been brought to this country after the Mutiny as an ordinary example of mediæval Indian jewel-setting, and was shown as such at the Exhibition at the Crystal Palace. Sir Basil Malcolmson had examined it and found that the “scratches” on it were actually the names of the Moghul Emperors who had owned it and had worn it in their turbans. This had established, once and for all, the fact that it is one of the world’s greatest historic gems, was formerly in the Peacock Throne at Delhi, and literally priceless in value. I think he added that it was now in the Regalia at the Tower of London.

I wondered whether the “Blue Water” and the “Nadirshah Emerald” had ever met in India, and whether the blue stone had seen as much of human misery and villainy as the great green one. Quite possibly, the saphire had faced the emerald, the one in the turban of Shivaji, the Maratha soldier of fortune, and the other in that of Akhbar, the Moghul Emperor.

And I remember wondering whether the stones, the one in the possession of a country gentleman, the other in that of the King of England, had reached the ends of their respective histories of theft, bloodshed, and human suffering.

Certainly it seemed impossible that the “Blue Water” should again “see life” (and death)—until one remembered that such stones are indestructible and immortal, and may be, thousands of years hence, the cause of any crime that greed and covetousness can father....

Anyhow, I should be glad to see the big sapphire again, and hear anything that Sir Basil might have to say about it.

I remember that Augustus distinguished himself that evening.

“I wonder how much you'd give Aunt for the ‘Blue Water,’” he remarked to Sir Basil.

“I am not a dealer,” replied that gentleman.

And when Claudia asked Aunt Patricia if she were going to show Sir Basil the Priest’ Hole and the hiding-place of the safe in which the sapphire reposed, the interesting youth observed:

“Better not, Aunt. He might come back and pinch it one dark night—the sapphire I mean, not the Hold.”

Ignoring him, Aunt Patricia said that she would take Sir Basil and the other guest, a man named Lawrence, a Nigerian official who was an old friend, and show them the Priests’ Hole.

The conversation then turned upon the marvellous history of the Hope Diamond, and the incredible but true tale of the misfortune which invariably befell its possessor; upon Priests’ Holes and the varying tide of religious persecution which led to the fact that the same hiding-place had sheltered Roman Catholic priests and Protestant pastors in turn; and upon the day when Elizabethan troopers, searching for Father Campion, did damage to our floors, pictures, panelling, and doors (traces of which are still discernible), without discovering the wonderfully-contrived Priests’ Hole at all.

It was near the end of this very interesting dinner that our beloved and reverend old friend, the Chaplain, made it more memorable than it otherwise would have been.

He had sat throughout dinner behaving beautifully, talking beautifully, and looking beautiful (with his ivory face and silver hair, which made him look twenty years older than he was), and then, just as Burdon put the decanters in front of him, he suddenly did what he had never done before—“broke out” in Aunt Patricia’s presence. We had often known him to be queer, and it was an open secret in the house that he was to be humoured when queer (but if open, it was still a secret nevertheless), though he was always perfectly normal in Aunt Patricia’s presence.

And now it happened!

“Burdon,” said he, in the quiet voice in which one speaks “aside” to a servant, “could you get me a very beautiful white rabbit with large pink eyes, and, if possible, a nice pink ribbon round its neck? A mauve would do.... But on no account pale blue ribbon, Burdon.”

It was a bad break and we all did our best to cover it up by talking fast—but Burdon and Michael were splendid.

“Certainly, your Reverence,” said Burdon without turning a hair, and marched straight to the screen by the service-door, as one expecting to find a white rabbit on the table behind it.

“That’s a novel idea, sir,” said Michael. “I suppose it’s a modern equivalent of the roast peacock brought to table in its feathers, looking as though it were alive? Great idea ...”

“Yes,” Digby took him up. “Boar’s head, with glass eyes and all that. Never heard of a rabbit served in its jacket though, I think. Good idea, anyhow.”

The Chaplain smiled vacantly, and Augustus Brandon giggled and remarked:

“I knew a man who jugged his last hair, though.”

I hastened to join in, and Isobel began to question the Chaplain as to the progress of his book on Old Glass, a book which he had been writing for years, the subject being his pet hobby.

I wondered whether my aunt, at the head of the table, had noticed anything. Glancing at her, I saw that she looked ten years older than she had done before it happened.

As I held the door open, when the ladies retired after dinner, she whispered to me in passing, “Tell Michael to look after the Chaplain this evening. He has been suffering from insomnia and is not himself.”

But later, in the drawing-room, when the “Blue Water” was smiling, beguiling, and alluring from its white velvet cushion beneath the glass dome, and we stood round the table on which it lay, the Chaplain certainly was himself, and, if possible, even more learned and interesting on the subject of gems than the great Sir Basil.

I was very thankful indeed, for my heart ached for Aunt Patricia as she watched him; watched him just as a mother would watch an only child of doubtful sanity, balanced between her hope and her fear, her passionate denial of its idiocy, her passionate joy in signs of its normality.