"THE SOUNDS of SILVER": Some years ago, I was guest at the charity opening of an opulent New York antiques show. I found myself tapped as the unofficial tour guide for a group of the more than mildly affluent, dressed in "Manhattan Smart Casual" lest they arouse too much attention. As since the dawn of civilization, the dealers smelled potential, eyeing us like bears during a salmon run. We moved from booth to booth; the treasures of ages splayed before us by merchants in full obsequious flower. A celebrated procuror from "the Old South" invited us into his lair. He specialized in ornate association items; objects once possessed by one of the numbered Louis of France, their mistresses, or other unmentionables among the great and infamous of epochs past. As if preparing for a seance, our little coven was gently seated at an elaborately decorated marquetry table, purportedly from the boudoir of Napoleon III. With a flourish, our host produced his