“But a woman--don’t interrupt; I use the word in a superior sense--can never appreciate the fine humor of a tipsy man. She expects him to be obvious: to fall in the gutter, to be towed home by the policeman, or fined for being disorderly. Tales of buoyancy, funny from the man’s point of view, would bore you.” “Humph!” “There are other tales--quite of the feudal period--which Gerald would rather I did not tell. Merry tales, with an undercurrent of sadness: the most perfect form of humor.” “I hope you don’t tax me with immodest prudery.” “I tax your husband. Some of the tales may be rather mad.” “Lunatics are the salt of the earth. Come and dine with us once a week. Tell me a story after dinner--Gerald goes to sleep.” “I must tell them in the Inn or they’d lose their flavor.” “Here! Once a week--that is settled. I’ll come. Marlowe’s Inn is charming. These quiet squares, just off Holborn; these sedate houses, with their old staircases and sets of chambers, each with its stout black door, appeal to me. I like the archway, the porter at the gate. I never saw such a green garden. I love rooks. Everything is gay, cool, monastic; a most fascinating place. And such queer people! I met a man with the face of a mystic----” “Probably Guy Blockley, the comedian.” “There was another man with a striped waistcoat, closely cropped hair, and a bulldog jaw. He looked like a prizefighter.” “That’s Paradale, the poet.” “Good Heavens! Then I met a woman, very fat. She carried a pail of dirty water. No doubt she was a political hostess, famous for her parties, or a popular lady novelist.” “She was only a charwoman--laundresses we call them in the Inn. She has probably ‘seen better days.’” “Well--about the tales?” “Sad tales, remember--partly sad. But you’ll get a laugh out of them.” “I prefer sad tales; there is more strength in a sob than in a giggle. Anything, so long as they are not commonplace. So long as the people don’t marry in the last chapter. I’m so sick of sane, respectable people who do exactly what they ought to do. Gerald has a regular income--that blight on originality. I was doomed to middle-class ease from my very cradle.” “I wonder if you really _are_ broad-minded. I wonder! You are not very young----” “Nowadays a woman only comes of age at thirty.” “After thirty she is often a prude.” “But I am not so very much after. Why waste time in parrying? Tell me a story at once. Let this be the first sitting.” * * * * * “It was very stupid of me to clutch your arm like that--to scream. A scream is the admission of small intellect, of nerves, of everything that went out with smelling-bottles. But that noise startled me--it was the prologue to your tale--too realistic. What was it? I think it came from that house across the way, from that open window on the third floor, with the blue window box.” “From No. 7. Yes; of course.” “How somber you look!”