A Norwegian stove?
He does not approve of them, but says that men ought to be satisfied with sandwiches out shooting.

A telescope?
He never lifts his eyes high enough above our delinquencies to look at the stars.

I cannot arrive at any approximation to a decision.

As I issue from a china-shop, with a brown-paper parcel under my arm, and out on the hot and glaring flags, I see a young man come stepping down the street, with a long, loose, British stride; a young man, pale and comely, and a good deal worn out by the flies, that have also eaten most of me.
"How are you ?" cry I, hastily shifting my umbrella to the other hand, so as to have my right one ready to offer him.

"Are not these streets blinding?
I am blinking like an owl in daylight!--so you never came to see us, after all!" "It was so likely that I should!" he answers, with his nose in the air.
"Very likely!" reply I, taking him literally; "so likely that I have been expecting you every day." "You seem to forget--confound these flies!"-- (as a stout blue-bottle blunders into one flashing eye)--"you seem to forget that you told me, in so many words, to stay away." "You _were_ huffy, then!" say I, with an accent of incredulity.