The preliminary greetings spoken, Denis found an empty chair between Gombauld and Jenny and sat down.     

       “How are you, Jenny?” he shouted to her.     

       Jenny nodded and smiled in mysterious silence, as though the subject of her health were a secret that could not be publicly divulged.     

       “How’s London been since I went away?” Anne inquired from the depth of her chair.     

       The moment had come; the tremendously amusing narrative was waiting for       utterance. “Well,” said Denis, smiling happily, “to begin with...”      

       “Has Priscilla told you of our great antiquarian find?” Henry Wimbush leaned forward; the most promising of buds was nipped.     

       “To begin with,” said Denis desperately, “there was the Ballet...”      

       “Last week,” Mr. Wimbush went on softly and implacably, “we dug up fifty yards of oaken drain-pipes; just tree trunks with a hole bored through the middle. Very interesting indeed. Whether they were laid down by the monks in the fifteenth century, or whether...”      

       Denis listened gloomily. “Extraordinary!” he said, when Mr. Wimbush had finished; “quite extraordinary!” He helped himself to another slice of cake. He didn’t even want to tell his tale about London now; he was damped.     

       For some time past Mary’s grave blue eyes had been fixed upon him. “What have you been writing lately?” she asked. It would be nice to have a little literary conversation.     

       “Oh, verse and prose,” said Denis—“just verse and prose.”      

       “Prose?” Mr. Scogan pounced alarmingly on the word. “You’ve been writing prose?”      

       “Yes.”      

       “Not a novel?”      

       “Yes.”      

       “My poor Denis!” exclaimed Mr. Scogan. “What about?”      

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