Farrar was very quick at this sort of thing; and now that the steering had become easier was only too glad to join her in worrying the Celebrity.  But he, if he were conscious, gave no sign of it.

“They ought to be buried so that they could not dig themselves up,” he said.  “The epitaphs would only strengthen their belief that they had lived in an unappreciative age.”

“One I happen to have in mind, however, lives in an appreciative age.  Most appreciative.”

“And women are often epitaph-makers.”

“You are hard on the sex, Mr. Farrar,” she answered, “but perhaps justly so.  And yet there are some women I know of who would not write an epitaph to his taste.”

Farrar looked at her curiously.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

“Do not imagine I am touchy on the subject,” she replied quickly; “some of us are fortunate enough to have had our eyes opened.”

I thought the Celebrity stirred uneasily.

“Have you read The Sybarites?” she asked.

Farrar was puzzled.

“No,” said he sententiously, “and I don’t want to.”

“I know the average man thinks it a disgrace to have read it.  And you may not believe me when I say that it is a strong story of its kind, with a strong moral.  There are men who might read that book and be a great deal better for it.  And, if they took the moral to heart, it would prove every bit as effectual as their own epitaphs.”

He was not quite sure of her drift, but he perceived that she was still making fun of Mr. Allen.

“And the moral?” he inquired.

“Well,” she said, “the best I can do is to give you a synopsis of the story, and then you can judge of its fitness.  The hero is called Victor Desmond.  He is a young man of a sterling though undeveloped character, who has been hampered by an indulgent parent with a large fortune.  Desmond is a butterfly, and sips life after the approved manner of his kind,—­now from Bohemian glass, now from vessels of gold and silver.  He chats with stage lights in their dressing-rooms, and attends a ball in the Bowery or a supper at Sherry’s with a ready versatility.  The book, apart from its intention, really gives the middle classes an excellent idea of what is called ‘high-life.’

“It is some time before Desmond discovers that he possesses the gift of Paris,—­a deliberation proving his lack of conceit,—­that wherever he goes he unwittingly breaks a heart, and sometimes two or three.  This discovery is naturally so painful that he comes home to his chambers and throws himself on a lounge before his fire in a fit of self-deprecation, and reflects on a misspent and foolish life.  This, mind you, is where his character starts to develop.  And he makes a heroic resolve, not to cut off his nose or to grow a beard, nor get married, but henceforth to live a life of usefulness and seclusion, which was certainly considerate.  And furthermore, if