this delicious
business which it can no longer personally practice with the fluency of
yore. It was for this reason that we all yearned in our middle-aged way
for the tale of love which we expected from young Richard. He, on his
part, repeated the hope that by the time his turn to tell a story was
reached we should be tired of stories and prefer to spend the evening at
the card tables or in the music room.

We were a house party, no brief "week-end" affair, but a gathering whose
period for most of the guests covered a generous and leisurely ten
days, with enough departures and arrivals to give that variety which
is necessary among even the most entertaining and agreeable people. Our
skilful hostess had assembled us in the country, beneath a roof of New
York luxury, a luxury which has come in these later days to be so
much more than princely. By day, the grounds afforded us both golf and
tennis, the stables provided motor cars and horses to ride or drive over
admirable roads, through beautiful scenery that was embellished by a
magnificent autumn season. At nightfall, the great house itself received
us in the arms of supreme comfort, fed us sumptuously, and after dinner
ministered to our middle-aged bodies with chairs and sofas of the
highest development.

The plan devised by our hostess, Mrs. Davenport, that a story should be
told by one of us each evening, had met with courtesy, but not I with
immediate enthusiasm. But Mrs. Davenport had chosen her guests with her
usual wisdom, and after the first experiment, story telling proved so
successful that none of us would have readily abandoned it. When the
time had come for Richard Field to entertain the company with the
promised tale from his life experience, his hope of escaping this ordeal
had altogether vanished.

Mrs. Field, it had been noticed as early as breakfast time, was inclined
to be nervous on her husband's account. Five years of married life had
not cured her of this amiable symptom, and she made but a light meal.
He, on the other hand, ate heartily and without signs of disturbance.
Apparently he was not even conscious of the glances that his wife so
frequently stole at him.

"Do at least have some omelet, my dear," whispered Mrs. Davenport
urgently. "It's quite light."

But Mrs. Field could summon no appetite.

"I see you are anxious about him," Mrs. Davenport continued after
breakfast. "You are surely not afraid his story will fail to interest
us?"