Part 2 (2/2)

”I'm glad you fancied it,” replied the author, relapsing into silence.

Mabel tapped the gravel with her foot; it is strange how audible a trifling sound becomes at times.

”Please tell me what he did,” she begged. ”I never heard a story in which so little happened.”

The writer of short stories bit his full red lip, and sat erect.

”The young monk waited till the house was wrapped in sleep,” he said, almost defiantly, it seemed. ”Then, drawing the great bolt, he went out into the night. The harvest moon was in the sky, and----”

”It rained, I think,” suggested Mr. Hopworthy.

”No matter if it did,” rejoined the other. ”Unmindful of the elements, he wound his cowl about him, and pressed on, fearlessly, into the forest, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. Mile after mile he strode--and strode--and strode--until--until--it was time to return----”

”You forget the peasant festival,” prompted Mr. Hopworthy.

”Festival?” said Mr. Ferris. ”Ah, that was a mere episode, intended to give a sense of contrast.”

”Of course,” Mr. Hopworthy a.s.sented. ”How frivolous beside his own austere life appeared these rustic revels. How calm, by contrast, was the quiet of the cloister----”

”Yes,” Mr. Ferris took up the screed, ”and, as from a distance he watched their clumsy merriment, he--he--he----”

”He determined to have just one dance for luck,” a.s.sisted Mr. Hopworthy.

Perhaps the author, thus hearing the story from another, detected here some flaw of logic, for he did not proceed at once, although Miss Dunbar waited with the most encouraging interest. The momentary pause was put to flight by Mr. Hopworthy.

”Ah, Zola never did anything more daring,” he declared. ”Even Zola might have hesitated to make _Ignatius_ change clothes with the intoxicated soldier, and leaping into the middle of the ballroom, shout that every gla.s.s must be filled to the brim.”

”Hold on!” gasped Mr. Ferris. ”There must be some mistake. I swear I never wrote anything like that in my life.”

”But you have admitted it!” the other cried. ”You cannot conceal it from us now. You are grand. You are sublime!”

”I deny it absolutely,” returned Mr. Ferris.

”Please stop discussing, and let me hear the rest,” Mabel pouted. ”Do go on, Mr. Ferris.”

”I can't,” said Mr. Ferris, sadly. ”My story has been garbled by the printer.”

”But the waltz,” urged Mr. Hopworthy. ”Surely, that waltz was yours.”

Perhaps once more the irresistible logic of events became apparent, for, with an effort, Mr. Ferris said:

”Oh, yes, that waltz was mine. Enraptured by its strains, and giddy with the fumes of wine, _The Almoner_ floated in a dream of sensuous delight till suddenly he recalled--suddenly he recalled----”

”If you will pardon another interruption,” put in Mr. Hopworthy, ”he did nothing of the sort. Suddenly, as you must remember, word was brought that _The Abbot_ was dead, and that _Ignatius_ had been elected in his place.”

”You spoil my climax, sir,” the author cried. ”Das.h.i.+ng the wine cup from his lips, _Ignatius_ then rushed into the night----”

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