"But you have admitted it!" the other cried. "You cannot conceal it from us now. You are grand. You are sublime!" "I deny it absolutely," returned Mr. Ferris. "Please stop discussing, and let me hear the rest," Mabel pouted. "Do go on, Mr. Ferris." "I can't," said Mr. Ferris, sadly. "My story has been garbled by the printer." "But the waltz," urged Mr. Hopworthy. "Surely, that waltz was yours." Perhaps once more the irresistible logic of events became apparent, for, with an effort, Mr. Ferris said: "Oh, yes, that waltz was mine. Enraptured by its strains, and giddy with the fumes of wine, _The Almoner_ floated in a dream of sensuous delight till suddenly he recalled--suddenly he recalled----" "If you will pardon another interruption," put in Mr. Hopworthy, "he did nothing of the sort. Suddenly, as you must remember, word was brought that _The Abbot_ was dead, and that _Ignatius_ had been elected in his place." "You spoil my climax, sir," the author cried. "Dashing the wine cup from his lips, _Ignatius_ then rushed into the night----" "But he could not find the soldier anywhere," Mr. Hopworthy interposed. "Why should he want to find the confounded soldier?" demanded the narrator, fiercely. "Why, to get his cowl, of course." "Splendid!" exclaimed Mabel, clapping her hands. "He--he----" the author stammered, and again the other lent a friendly tongue to say: "_Ignatius_ returned to the monastery at once. And what should he discover there but _The Soldier_, seated in the chair of office, presiding at the council. But, see here, old chap, perhaps you had better finish your own story yourself?" "Sir!" cried the author, springing to his feet. "I detect your perfidy, and I call this about the shabbiest trick one gentleman ever attempted to play upon another. I shall not hesitate to denounce you far and wide as one capable of the smallest meanness!" "That is what _The Almoner_ told _The Soldier_," Mr. Hopworthy explained to Mabel, in a whisper, but the other, becoming almost violent, went on: "You are unfit, sir, to associate with people of refinement, and, when I meet you alone, it will give me a lively satisfaction to repeat the observation!" "That is what _The Soldier_ replied to _The Almoner_," Mr. Hopworthy again explained. But the other gentleman had lifted his hat, and was moving rapidly toward the striped tent, where ices were to be had. "I shall never forgive him for leaving the story unfinished," announced the lady of the bench. "And, don't you think his manner toward the end was rather strange?" Mr. Hopworthy sighed, and shook his head. "Those magazine men are all a trifle odd," he said. "Does not that parasol fatigue your hand?" "Yes, you may hold it, if you like," she answered. "I am glad everybody does not tell stories." THE DEAD MAN'S CHEST