sh your dessert."

Pollen smiled languidly. "Yes," he commented, "go on. It's interesting,
decidedly. I thought people had given up this sort of conversation long
ago."

For the third time Burnaby turned slowly toward him, only now his eyes,
instead of resting upon the bland countenance for a fraction of a
second, surveyed it lingeringly with the detached, absent-minded stare
Mrs. Ennis remembered so well. "Perhaps I will tell it, after all," he
said, in the manner of a man who has definitely changed his mind. "Would
you like to hear it?" he asked, turning to Mary Rochefort.

"Certainly!" she laughed. "Is it very immoral?"

"Extremely," vouchsafed Burnaby, "from the accepted point of view."

"Tell it in the other room," suggested Mrs. Ennis. "We'll sit before the
fire and tell ghost stories."

There was a trace of grimness in Burnaby's answering smile. "Curiously
enough, it is a ghost story," he said.

They had arisen to their feet; above the candles their heads and
shoulders were indistinct. For a moment Mrs. Ennis hesitated and looked
at Burnaby with a new bewilderment in her eyes.

"If it's very immoral," interposed Pollen, "I'm certain to like it."

Burnaby bowed to him with a curious old-fashioned courtesy. "I am sure,"
he observed, "it will interest you immensely."

Mrs. Ennis suddenly stared through the soft obscurity. "Good gracious,"
she said to herself, "what is he up to?"

In the little drawing room to which they returned, the jonquils seemed
to have received fresh vigor from their hour of loneliness; their
shining gold possessed the shadows. Mary Rochefort paused by the open
window and peered into the perfumed night. "How ridiculously young the
world gets every spring!" she said.

Mrs. Ennis arranged herself before the fire. "Now," she said to Burnaby,
"you sit directly opposite. And you"--she indicated Pollen--"sit here.
And Mimi, you there. So!" She nodded to Burnaby. "Begin!"

He laughed deprecatingly. "You make it portentous," he objected. "It
isn't much of a story; it's--it's really only a parable."

"It's going to be a moral story, after all," interjected Mrs. Ennis
triumphantly.

Burnaby chuckled and puffed at his cigarette. "Well," he said finally,
"it's about a fellow named Mackintosh."

Pollen, drowsily smoking a cigar, suddenly stirred uneasily.

"Who?" he asked, leaning forward.

"Mackintosh--James Mackintosh! What are you looking for? An ash-tray?
Here's one." Burnaby passe