"But did not _Ignatius_ decide to put the money where it would do the most good?" inquired Mr. Hopworthy. "The phrase is yours," responded Mr. Ferris, "but it conveys my meaning dimly." "As I recall the story," the other went on, "he resolved to sacrifice his own prejudices to the service of his fellow-creatures. But, when he thought of all who stood in need--the peasants tilling the fields, the sailors on the sea, the soldiers in the camp--he decided that it would be better to confine the benefit to one deserving object." "A very sensible decision," Mabel opined, and Mr. Ferris muttered: "Yes, that was my idea." As the voices of the garden came to them on the summer breeze, he made a movement to consult his watch. "You see my little problem," he observed. "The rest is immaterial." "But I so liked the part where the young monk, filled with his noble purpose, stole from the monastery by night," said Mr. Hopworthy. "Ah, there was a touch of realism." "I'm glad you fancied it," replied the author, relapsing into silence. Mabel tapped the gravel with her foot; it is strange how audible a trifling sound becomes at times. "Please tell me what he did," she begged. "I never heard a story in which so little happened." The writer of short stories bit his full red lip, and sat erect. "The young monk waited till the house was wrapped in sleep," he said, almost defiantly, it seemed. "Then, drawing the great bolt, he went out into the night. The harvest moon was in the sky, and----" "It rained, I think," suggested Mr. Hopworthy. "No matter if it did," rejoined the other. "Unmindful of the elements, he wound his cowl about him, and pressed on, fearlessly, into the forest, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. Mile after mile he strode--and strode--and strode--until--until--it was time to return----" "You forget the peasant festival," prompted Mr. Hopworthy. "Festival?" said Mr. Ferris. "Ah, that was a mere episode, intended to give a sense of contrast." "Of course," Mr. Hopworthy assented. "How frivolous beside his own austere life appeared these rustic revels. How calm, by contrast, was the quiet of the cloister----" "Yes," Mr. Ferris took up the screed, "and, as from a distance he watched their clumsy merriment, he--he--he----" "He determined to have just one dance for luck," assisted Mr. Hopworthy. Perhaps the author, thus hearing the story from another, detected here some flaw of logic, for he did not proceed at once, although Miss Dunbar waited with the most encouraging interest. The momentary pause was put to flight by Mr. Hopworthy. "Ah, Zola never did anything more daring," he declared. "Even Zola might have hesitated to make _Ignatius_ change clothes with the intoxicated soldier, and leaping into the middle of the ballroom, shout that every glass must be filled to the brim." "Hold on!" gasped Mr. Ferris. "There must be some mistake. I swear I never wrote anything like that in my life."