who
shot me a despairing glance as we rose to greet them.

But Susan, I thought, welcomed them with undisguised relief. She had
been surpassing herself before the fire, chatting blithely, wittily,
even a little recklessly; but there are gayer evenings conceivable than
one spent in the presence of three doleful men, two of whom have
proposed marriage to you, and one of whom would have done so if he were
not married already. Almost anything, even open espionage and covert
eschatology, was better than that.

Lucette--the name suggests Parisian vivacity, but she was really large
and physically languid and very blonde, scented at once, I felt, a
something faintly brimstoneish in the atmosphere of my model home, and
forthwith prepared herself for a protracted and pleasant evening. It so
happened that the Arthurs had never met Maltby, and Susan carried
through the ceremony of introduction with a fine swinging rhythm which
settled us as one group before the fire and for some moments at least
kept the conversation animated and general.

But Eschatology, brooding in the background, soon put an end to this
somewhat hectic social burst. The mere unnoted presence of Dr. Lyman
Arthur, peering nearsightedly in at the doorway on a children's party,
has been known, I am told, to slay youngling joy and turn little tots
self-conscious, so that they could no longer be induced by agonized
mothers to go to Jerusalem, or clap-in clap-out. His presence now,
gradually but surely, had much the same effect. Seated at Maltby's
elbow, he passed into the silence and drew us, struggling but helpless,
after him. For five horrible seconds nothing was heard but the impolite,
ironic whispering of little flames on the hearth. Was this man's
condition or state after death? Eschatology had conquered.

Susan, in duty bound as hostess, broke the spell, but it cannot be said
she rose to the occasion. "Is it a party in a parlor," she murmured
wistfully to the flames, "all silent and all--damned?"

Perceiving that Lucette supposed this to be original sin, I laughed much
more loudly than cheerfully, exclaiming "Good old Wordsworth!" as I did
so.

Then Maltby's evil genius laid hold on him.

"By the way," he snorted, "they tell me one of you academic ghouls has
discovered that Wordsworth had an illegitimate daughter--whatever _that_
means! Any truth in it? I hope so. It's the humanest thing I ever heard
about the old sheep!"

Doctor Arthur cleared his th