He found himself strangely unwilling to cross alone the moderately large square room. Its floor of alternate light and dark wooden strips seemed like a great open space in which something evil must happen. He yielded to the irrational fear which impelled him to slip around close to the wall. Without waiting for him to take off his overcoat or sit down, Clark flashed news of his own dismissal—too much aglow with the war they were going to wage to perceive anything wrong with Guthrie. “Searles wanted all six to resign!” said Clark in a low, eager voice. “Corking spirit, but we decided not. Six is too few. With six more—! If we’d only had a little more time! Never mind. The idea is sound. We’ll put it through. We’re going to raise a fund. I’ll give my whole time to it as organizer. Sit down, man, sit down!” Guthrie shook his head. Vida rose with sudden solicitude, came close and laid her hand on his arm. “What has happened to you, Mr. Guthrie?” she asked, so low that Clark barely heard. “You are happy people,” said Guthrie, for a moment permitting her searching eyes to fathom his. “You will fight beautifully. I have failed you. The children were too much for me. I have caved in. I keep my job. I’m done for.” He turned away, unable to endure their eyes. “Good-bye,” he said, and started back along the wall. Clark sprang up, napkin in hand, knocking a knife to the floor. “Oh, here!” he protested. Vida, with compassionate eyes on the retreating figure of Guthrie, stopped Clark with a gesture. “That’s final,” she said. “He’s crushed. There’s no use torturing him.” THE CARDINAL’S GARDEN _Villa Albani_ WITTER BYNNER