the
last word in perfection. My old friend, who had handled a world of
gems and had specialised in turquoises, swore that the mines of Persia
could not in a thousand years yield their like again.
I
got him to dilate on the subject of turquoises once, when the famous
earrings were on view a couple of tables away. I wanted to know a
number of things. Whether turquoise was ever cut with facets, for
instance. He was an impatient man. "What stupid questions you ask! Of
course they are not. Why? You are always asking why. Facets are not for
turquoises, and there is nothing more to be said."
Next
I wanted to know if turquoises could be faked, and if so how. By that,
neither of us meant making imitation stones, but the improving of
faded or naturally inferior stones for the purposes of the trade.
"Oil," said he cryptically.
"OU?"
"Turquoise
is porous, do you see, and absorbs oil, which is fine for making a
greenish stone a fine blue, though only temporarily, you understand. If
you ever buy turquoises, young fellow, get them from an Oriental you
can trust and smell them first."
I
pointed towards Madame "X's" table. She was wearing her turquoises, as
I have said. "But surely turquoise is only semi-precious, after all.
Why go into such ecstasies over those stones over there, for instance.
They're very pretty, but surely they're not so wonderful as all that."
Old Poldar gave me a look. "Do you want the lady's husband to come over and box your ears, you idiot? Where
