Mr. Ferris hesitated, cast one glance toward the open lawn beyond the shrubbery, another to the amber parasol, and sat down in the other corner. Mr. Hopworthy slipped from the table to the vacant chair. "An almoner," explained the _Stylus_, in as nearly an undertone as the letter of courtesy permitted, "is a sort of treasurer, you know.... In a monastery, you understand.... The monk who distributes alms and that sort of thing." "Oh, then it is a mediæval story!" cried Mabel. "How delightful!" "No, modern," corrected Mr. Hopworthy. "Modern in setting, though mediæval in spirit," said Mr. Ferris, taking off his hat. "Ah, that, indeed!" breathed Mr. Hopworthy. "I shall not soon forget your opening description; that picture of the old cathedral, lighted only by the far, faint flicker of an occasional taper, burning before some shrined saint. I can see him now, _Ignatius_, the young monk, as he moves in silence from one to another of the alms-boxes, gathering into his leathern bag the offerings that have been deposited by the faithful." "I think he had a light," suggested the author of short stories, who was listening, critically. "Of course; a flaming torch." "How sweet of him!" Mabel murmured, and Mr. Hopworthy went on. "There were twelve boxes--were there not?--upon as many pillars, and in each box, in addition to the customary handful of copper _sous_, there lay, as I recall it, a silver coin----" "You will perceive the symbolism," the author whispered. "It is perfect," sighed Mabel. "Never had such a thing occurred before," continued Mr. Hopworthy, who appeared to know the story very well, "and in the solitude of his cell, _Ignatius_ sat for hours contemplating the riches that had so strangely come into his hand. His first thought was of the poor, to whom, of right, the alms belonged; but, when he recalled the avarice of _The Abbot_, his heart misgave him----" "Rather a striking situation, I thought," remarked the writer. "Go on a little further, please." "I wish I could," said Mr. Hopworthy, "but this is where your keen analysis comes in, your irresistible logic. I confess you went a shade beyond my radius of thought." "Perhaps," admitted the other. "Very likely." But he had now caught the spirit of his own production, and, turning to his neighbor, he went on to explain: "My purpose was to present a problem, to suggest a conflict of emotions, quite in the manner of Huysmans. Should _The Abbot_, who is but the type of sordid wisdom, be consulted, or should _The Almoner_, symbolizing self, obey the higher call of elementary impulse?" "And which did _Ignatius_ do?" Mabel asked. "I fear you fail to catch my meaning," said the author. "It is the soul-struggle we are analyzing----" "But he must have come to some conclusion?" "Not necessarily," said Mr. Ferris, gravely. "A soul-struggle is continuous, it goes on----" Mr. Ferris waved his white hand toward infinity.