"They tell me," he said, "that you opticians make glasses now which
are calculated to save the sight in old age."
"Yes, sir," replied the optician, with wriggling white fingers. "We
make a special study of that. We endeavour to save the sight--to
store it up, as it were, in--a middle life, for use in old age. You
see, sir, the pupil of the eye--"
Sir John held up a warning hand.
"The pupil of the eye is your business, as I understand from the
sign above your shop--at all events, it is not mine," he said.
"Just give me some glasses to suit my sight, and don't worry me with
the pupil of the eye."
He turned towards the door, threw back his shoulders, and waited.
"Spectacles, sir?" inquired the man meekly.
"Spectacles, sir!" cried Sir John. "No, sir. Spectacles be damned!
I want a pair of eyeglasses."
And these eyeglasses were affixed to the bridge of Sir John
Meredith's nose, as he sat stiffly in the straight-backed chair.
He was reading a scientific book which society had been pleased to
read, mark, and learn, without inwardly digesting, as is the way of
society with books. Sir John read a good deal--he had read more
lately, perhaps, since entertainments and evening parties had fallen
off so lamentably--and he made a point of keeping up with the mental
progress of the age.
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