"Well," said the Lawyer, "I was only thinking. She was religious, that dear little Josephine?" "At least she always went to church." "I know the type," said the Violinist, gently. "Accepted what she was taught, believed it." "Exactly," said the Lawyer, "that is what I was getting at. Well then, when her son meets her _au dela_--he will ask for his father--" "Or," interrupted the Violinist, "his own mother will claim him." "Don't worry," laughed the Critic. "It's dollars to doughnuts that she was 'dear little Josephine' to all the Heavenly Host half an hour after she entered the 'gates of pearl.' Don't look shocked. That is not sacrilegious. It is intentions--motives, that are immortal, not facts. Besides--" "Don't push that idea too far," interrupted the Doctor from the door. "Don't be alarmed. I was only going to say--there are Ik Marvels _au dela_--" "I knew that idea was in your head. Drop it!" laughed the Doctor. "Anyway," said the Violinist, "if Life is but a dream, she had a pretty one. Good night." And he went up to bed, and we all soon followed him, and I imagine not one of us, as we looked out into the moonlit air, thought that night of war. III THE CRITIC'S STORY 'TWAS IN THE INDIAN SUMMER THE TALE OF AN ACTRESS The next day, just as we were sitting down to dinner, the news came that Namur had fallen. The German army had marched singing into the burning town the afternoon before. The Youngster had his head over a map almost all through dinner. The Belgians were practically pushed out of all but Antwerp, and the Germans were rapidly approaching the natural defences of France running from Lille to Verdun, through Valenciennes, Mauberge, Hirson and Mezieres. Things were beginning to look serious, although we still insisted on believing that the Germans could not break through. One result of the march of events was that we none of us had any longer the smallest desire to argue. Theories were giving way to the facts of every day, but in our minds, I imagine, we were every one of us asking, "How long CAN we stay here? How long will it be wise, even if we are permitted?" But, as if by common consent, no one asked the question, and we were only too glad to sit out in the garden we had all learned to love, and to talk of anything which was not war, until the Critic moved his chair into the middle of the circle, and began his tale. "Let me see," he remarked. "I need a property or two," and he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and laid it on the table, and, leaning his elbows on it, began: * * * * * It was in the Autumn of '81 that I last saw Dillon act. She had made a great success that winter, yet, in the middle of the season, she had suddenly disappeared. There were all kinds of newspaper explanations.