away?" Anne inquired from the depth of
her chair.

The moment had come; the tremendously amusing narrative was waiting for
utterance. "Well," said Denis, smiling happily, "to begin with..."

"Has Priscilla told you of our great antiquarian find?" Henry Wimbush
leaned forward; the most promising of buds was nipped.

"To begin with," said Denis desperately, "there was the Ballet..."

"Last week," Mr. Wimbush went on softly and implacably, "we dug up fifty
yards of oaken drain-pipes; just tree trunks with a hole bored through
the middle. Very interesting indeed. Whether they were laid down by the
monks in the fifteenth century, or whether..."

Denis listened gloomily. "Extraordinary!" he said, when Mr. Wimbush had
finished; "quite extraordinary!" He helped himself to another slice
of cake. He didn't even want to tell his tale about London now; he was
damped.

For some time past Mary's grave blue eyes had been fixed upon him. "What
have you been writing lately?" she asked. It would be nice to have a
little literary conversation.

"Oh, verse and prose," said Denis--"just verse and prose."

"Prose?" Mr. Scogan pounced alarmingly on the word. "You've been writing
prose?"

"Yes."

"Not a novel?"

"Yes."

"My poor Denis!" exclaimed Mr. Scogan. "What about?"

Denis felt rather uncomfortable. "Oh, about the usual things, you know."

"Of course," Mr. Scogan groaned. "I'll describe the plot for you. Little
Percy, the hero, was never good at games, but he was always clever.
He passes through the usual public school and the usual university and
comes to London, where he lives among the artists. He is bowed down with
melancholy thought; he carries the whole weight of the universe upon
his shoulders. He writes a novel of dazzling brilliance; he dabbles
delicately in Amour and disappears, at the end of the book, into the
luminous Future."

Denis blushed scarlet. Mr. Scogan had described the plan of his novel
with an accuracy that was appalling. He made an effort to laugh. "You're
entirely wrong," he said. "My novel is not in the least like that." It
was a heroic lie. Luckily, he reflected, only two chapters were written.
He would tear them up that very evening when he unpacked.

Mr. Scogan paid no attention to his denial, but went on: "Why will
you young men continue to write about things that are so entirely
uninteresting as the mentality of adolescents and artists? Professional
anthropologists might find it interes