of it, I have no more interest in it than a sparrow has in her last
year's offspring."

"The trouble with you is that you haven't any patience, any staying
power. That ought to have been a three volume novel. We would have
heard all about their first meeting, their first love, their
separation, his marriage, her _debuts_, etc., etc.," declared the
Journalist.

"Oh, thunder," said the Doctor. "I think there was quite enough of it.
Don't throw anything at me--I liked it--I liked it! Only I'm sorry she
died."

"So am I," said the Critic. "That really hurt me."

"Because," said the Doctor, shying away toward the door, "I should
have liked to know if the child turned out to be a genius. That kind
do sometimes," and he disappeared into the doorway.

"Anyhow," said the Critic, "I am going to wear laurels until some one
tells a better--and I'd like to know why the Journalist looks so
pensively thoughtful?"

"I am trying to recall who she was--Margaret Dillon."

"Don't fret--she may be a 'poor thing,' but she is all 'mine own'--a
genuine creation, Mr. Journalist. I am no reporter."

"Ah? Then you are more of a sentimentalist than I even dared to
dream."

"Don't deny it," said the Critic, as he rose and yawned. "So I am
going to bed to sleep on my laurels while I may. Good night."

"Well," called the Sculptor after him, as he sauntered away, "as one
of our mutual friends used to say 'The Indian Summer of Passion
scorches.'"

"But, alas!" added the other, "it does not _always_ kill."

"Witness--" began the Journalist, but the Critic cut him short.

"As you love me--not that famous list of yours including so many of
the actresses we all know. I can't bear THAT to-night. After
all the French have a better phrase for it--'La Crise de quarante
ans.'"

The Nurse and Divorcee had been very quiet, but here they locked
hands, and the former remarked that they prepared to withdraw:

"That is our cue to disappear--and you, too, Youngster. These men are
far too wise."

So we of the discussed sex made a circle with our clasped hand about
the Youngster and danced him into the house. The last I saw of the
garden that night, as I looked out of my window toward the northeast,
with "Namur" beating in my head, the five men had their heads still
together, but whether "the other sex" was getting scientifically torn
to bits, or they, too, had Namur in their minds I never knew.

IV

THE DOCTOR'S STORY

AS ONE DREAMS