linist tried to save the situation by saying gently: "Well, I
don't know. It is the commonest of all situations in a melodrama. So
why fuss?"

The Trained Nurse shrugged her shoulders. "I know that story," she
said.

"You do not," snapped the Lawyer. "You may know _a_ story, but you
never heard that one."

"All right," she admitted. "I am not going to add footnotes, don't be
alarmed."

"You don't mean to say that is a true story?" ejaculated the Divorcee.

"As for me," said the Critic, "I don't believe it."

"No one asked you to," replied the Lawyer. "It is only another case of
the Doctor's pet theory--that whatever the mind of mortal mind can
conceive, can come to pass."

"I suppose also that it is a proof of another of his pet theories.
Scratch civilized man, and you find the beast."

The Doctor was lying back in his chair. He never said a word. Somehow
the story seemed a less suggestive topic of conversation than usual.

"The weather is going to change," said the Doctor. "There's rain in
the air."

"Well, anyway," said the Journalist, as we gathered up our belongings
and prepared to shut up for the night, "the Youngster's ghost story
was a good night cap compared to that."

"Not a bit of it," said the Critic. "There's the foundation of a bully
melodrama in that story, and I'm not sure that it isn't the best one
yet--so full of reserves."

"No imagination, all the same," answered the Critic. "As realistic in
subject, if not in treatment, as Zola."

"Now give us some shop jargon," laughed the Lawyer. "You've not really
treated us to a true touch of your methods yet."

"I only do that," laughed the Critic, "when I'm getting paid for it.
After all, as the Violinist remarked, the situation is a favorite one
in melodrama, from the money-coining 'Two Orphans' down. The only
trouble is, the Lawyer poured his villain and hero into one mould. The
other man ought to have trapped her, and the hero rescued her. But
that is only the difference between reality and art. Life is
inartistic. Art is only choosing the best way. Life never does that."

"Pig's wrist," said the Doctor, and that settled the question.

VIII

THE JOURNALIST'S STORY

IN A RAILWAY STATION

THE TALE OF A DANCER

On Friday night, just as we were finishing dinner--we had eaten
inside--the Divorcee said: "It may not be in order to make the remark,
but I cannot help saying that it is so strange to think that we are
sitting here so