“See here,” he said, “you are all my guests.  I am unreasonably fond of you, even if we can’t see Life from the same point of view.  Man as an individual, and Man as a part of the Scheme are two different things.  I asked you down here to enjoy yourselves, not to argue.  I apologize—­all my fault—­unpardonable of me.  Come now—­we have decided to stay as long as we can—­we are all interested.  It is not every generation that has the honor to sit by, and watch two systems meet at the crossroads and dispute the passage to the Future.  We’ll agree not to discuss the ethics of the matter again.  If the men marching out there to the frontier can agree to face the cannon—­and there are as many opinions there as here—­surely we can look on in silence.”

And on that agreement we all went to bed.

But on the following day, as we sat in the garden after dinner, our attempts to “keep off the grass” were miserably visible.  They cast a constraint on the party.  Every topic seemed to lead to the forbidden enclosure.  It was at a very critical moment that the Sculptor, sitting cross-legged on a bench, in a real Alma Tadema attitude, filled the dangerous pause with: 

“It was in the days of our Lord 1348 that there happened in Florence, the finest city in Italy—­”

And the Violinist, who was leaning against a tree, touched an imaginary mandolin, concluding:  “A most terrible plague.”

The Critic leaped to his feet.

“A corking idea,” he cried.

“Mine, mine own,” replied the Sculptor.  “I propose that what those who, in the days of the terrible plague, took refuge at the Villa Palmieri, did to pass away the time, we, who are watching the war approach—­as our host says it will—­do here.  Let us, instead of disputing, each tell a story after dinner—­to calm our nerves,—­or otherwise.”

At first every one hooted.

“I could never tell a story,” objected the Divorcee.

“Of course you can,” declared the Journalist.  “Everybody in the world has one story to tell.”

“Sure,” exclaimed the Lawyer.  “No embargo on subjects?”

“I don’t know,” smiled the Doctor.  “There is always the Youngster.”

“You go to blazes,” was the Youngster’s response, and he added:  “No war stories.  Draw that line.”

“Then,” laughed the Doctor, “let’s make it tales of our own, our native land.”  And there the matter rested.  Only, when we separated that night, each of us carried a sealed envelope containing a numbered slip, which decided the question of precedence, and it was agreed that no one but the story-teller should know who was to be the evening’s entertainer, until story-telling hour arrived with the coffee and cigarettes.

I

THE YOUNGSTER’S STORY

IT HAPPENED AT MIDNIGHT

THE TALE OF A BRIDE’S NEW HOME