grave, where his stepfather refused to have her coffin opened. And
St. George, fresh from his Alma Mater, had weighted the winged words
of his story with allusions to the tears celestial of Thetis, shed
for Achilles, and Creon's grief for Haemon, and the Unnatural Combat
of Massinger's father and son; so that Chillingworth had said things
in languages that are not dead (albeit a bit Elizabethan) and the
composing room had shaken mailed fists.

"Hi, you!" said Little Cawthorne, who was born in the South, "this
is a mellow minute. I could wish they came often. This shall be a
weekly occurrence--not so, St. George?"

"Cawthorne," Chillingworth warned, "mind your manners, or they'll
make you city editor."

A momentary shadow was cast by the appearance of Rollo, who was
manifestly a symbol of the world Philistine about which these guests
knew more and in which they played a smaller part than any other
class of men. But the tray which Rollo bore was his passport.
Thereafter, they all trooped to the table, and Chillingworth sat at
the head, and from the foot St. George watched the city editor break
bread with the familiar nervous gesture with which he was wont to
strip off yards of copy-paper and eat it. There was a tacit
assumption that he be the conversational sun of the hour, and in
fostering this understanding the host took grateful refuge.

"This is shameful," Chillingworth began contentedly. "Every one of
you ought to be out on the Boris story."

"What is the Boris story?" asked St. George with interest. But in