"It was yesterday afternoon," Mr. Waddington continued. "I was selling
an oak chest. I explained that it was not a genuine antique but that it
had certainly some claims to antiquity on account of its design. That
seemed to me to be a very fair way of putting it. Then I saw a man, who
was very keen on buying it, examining the brass handles. He looked up
at me. 'Why, the handles are genuine!' he exclaimed. 'They're real old
brass, anyway!' Now I knew quite well, Burton, that those handles,
though they were extraordinarily near the real thing, were not genuine.
I opened my mouth to tell him so, and then, Burton, do you know that I
hesitated?"
"You didn't tell him--that they were genuine!" Burton gasped.
Mr. Waddington shook his head.
"No," he admitted, "I did not go so far as that. Still, it was almost
as great a shock to me. I felt a distinct impulse to tell him that they
were. A few days ago, such an idea would never have entered my head.
It would have been a sheer impossibility."
"Anything else?"
Mr. Waddington hesitated. He seemed to be feeling the shame of these
avowals.
"This morning," he confessed, "I passed the door of the Golden Lion on
my way to the office. For the first time since--you know when--I felt a
desire--a faint desire but still it was there--to go in and chaff Milly
and have a pint of beer in a tankard.
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