In the little drawing room to which they returned, the jonquils seemed
to have received fresh vigor from their hour of loneliness; their
shining gold possessed the shadows. Mary Rochefort paused by the open
window and peered into the perfumed night. "How ridiculously young the
world gets every spring!" she said.

Mrs. Ennis arranged herself before the fire. "Now," she said to Burnaby,
"you sit directly opposite. And you"--she indicated Pollen--"sit here.
And Mimi, you there. So!" She nodded to Burnaby. "Begin!"

He laughed deprecatingly. "You make it portentous," he objected. "It
isn't much of a story; it's--it's really only a parable."

"It's going to be a moral story, after all," interjected Mrs. Ennis
triumphantly.

Burnaby chuckled and puffed at his cigarette. "Well," he said finally,
"it's about a fellow named Mackintosh."

Pollen, drowsily smoking a cigar, suddenly stirred uneasily.

"Who?" he asked, leaning forward.

"Mackintosh--James Mackintosh! What are you looking for? An ash-tray?
Here's one." Burnaby passed it over.

"Thanks!" said Pollen, relaxing. "Yes--go on!"

Burnaby resumed his narrative calmly. "I knew him--Mackintosh, that
is--fifteen, no, it was fourteen years ago in Arizona, when I was