It was noticeable that Mr. Ferris retained possession of the chair. As for the vacant place beside her on the bench, Mabel's parasol lay upon it. Mr. Ferris beamed as only the arrived can beam. "With your permission, I will take the table," said Mr. Hopworthy, looking to Miss Dunbar, who smiled. Mr. Ferris became overcast. "I fear our conversation may not interest you," he told the other man. "You know, you do not write short stories." And this was not the first time in the last half hour that Mr. Ferris had offered Mr. Hopworthy an opportunity to withdraw. The latter smiled, a broad, expansive smile. "Oh, but I read them," he persisted, perching on the table. "That is," he added, "when there is plot enough to keep one awake." Here Mr. Ferris smiled, or, rather, pouted, for his mouth, contrasted with that of Mr. Hopworthy, seemed child-like, not to say cherubic. "Plots," he observed, "are quite Victorian. We are, at least, decadent, are we not, Miss Mabel?" Mabel smoothed her amber skirt, and tried to look intelligent. "Oh, yes, indeed," she said. "Now, there was a story in last week's _Bee_ called 'Ralph Ratcliffe's Reincarnation,'" continued the gentleman on the table. "Did you read it, Miss Dunbar?" "I laid it aside to read," she answered, with evasion. "Pray don't. It's in my weakest vein," remonstrated Mr. Ferris. "One writes _down_ for the _Bee_, you know." "Pardon me," said Mr. Hopworthy, "I did not recognize the author's name as one of yours." "No one with fewer than twelve names should call himself in literature," the other said, a little vauntingly. Mr. Hopworthy embraced his knee. "The plot of that story----" he had begun to say, when Mr. Ferris interrupted. "There are but seven plots," he explained, "and thirty situations. To one that knows his trade, the outcome of a story should be from the very beginning as obvious as a properly opened game of chess." "How interesting it must be to write," put in Miss Dunbar appreciatively. Perhaps, in her simple way, she speculated as to where the present situation came among the thirty, and whether the sunbeam she was conscious of upon her hair had any literary value. "Do you ever see the _Stylus_?" inquired Mr. Hopworthy, from whose position the sunbeam could be observed to best advantage. "Sir," said Mr. Ferris, through his Boucher lips, "I may say I _am_ the _Stylus_." "Really!" cried the lady, though she could not have been greatly surprised. In truth, her exclamation veiled the tendency to yawn often induced in the young by objective conversation. If clever people only knew a little more, they would not so often talk of stupid things. "Ah, then it is to you we owe that spirited little _fabliau_ called 'The Story of Ignatius, the Almoner'?" remarked Mr. Hopworthy, almost indifferently. "A trifle," said the other; "what we scribblers call 'hack.'" Mr. Hopworthy's broad mouth contracted, and he might have been observed to suffer from some suppressed emotion.