We were a house party, no brief “week-end” affair, but a gathering whose period for most of the guests covered a generous and leisurely ten days, with enough departures and arrivals to give that variety which is necessary among even the most entertaining and agreeable people. Our skilful hostess had assembled us in the country, beneath a roof of New York luxury, a luxury which has come in these later days to be so much more than princely. By day, the grounds afforded us both golf and tennis, the stables provided motor cars and horses to ride or drive over admirable roads, through beautiful scenery that was embellished by a magnificent autumn season. At nightfall, the great house itself received us in the arms of supreme comfort, fed us sumptuously, and after dinner ministered to our middle-aged bodies with chairs and sofas of the highest development. The plan devised by our hostess, Mrs. Davenport, that a story should be told by one of us each evening, had met with courtesy, but not I with immediate enthusiasm. But Mrs. Davenport had chosen her guests with her usual wisdom, and after the first experiment, story telling proved so successful that none of us would have readily abandoned it. When the time had come for Richard Field to entertain the company with the promised tale from his life experience, his hope of escaping this ordeal had altogether vanished. Mrs. Field, it had been noticed as early as breakfast time, was inclined to be nervous on her husband’s account. Five years of married life had not cured her of this amiable symptom, and she made but a light meal. He, on the other hand, ate heartily and without signs of disturbance. Apparently he was not even conscious of the glances that his wife so frequently stole at him. “Do at least have some omelet, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Davenport urgently. “It’s quite light.” But Mrs. Field could summon no appetite. “I see you are anxious about him,” Mrs. Davenport continued after breakfast. “You are surely not afraid his story will fail to interest us?” “No, it is not that.” “It can’t be that he has given up the one he expected to tell us and can think of no other?” “Oh, no; he is going to tell that one.” “And you don’t like his choice?” “He won’t tell me what it is!” Mrs. Davenport put down her embroidery. “Then, Ethel,” she laid with severity, “the fault is yours. When I had been five years married, Mr. Davenport confided everything to me.” “So does Richard. Except when I particularly ask him.” “There it is, Ethel. You let him see that you want to know.”