“Lovely! Perfectly delicious!” said Cherry, and Ethel said,
“It’ll make me think I’m living in a literary atmosphere once more. Since Philip won that prize, he’s simply vegetated. I don’t like it a bit. What’s your story about?”
“It’s a sort of fable. I call it the ‘Two Altruists.’”
We had coffee served out under the maple, and while we were drinking it Sibthorp, after apologising for not being a better reader, began it.
“Once upon a time—”
“Wait a minute,” said I, “Here comes Minerva. She doesn’t want to listen, but it’ll go better if we wait until she has gone.”
She had come for the cups and saucers, and she took Ellery’s coffee before he had had a chance to touch it, but no one noticed, he least of all, intent as he was upon disburdening his mind of his fable.
I make no bones of producing it, because we all liked it so well that it seems as if a larger audience might be pleased at its whimsical tone.
“‘Once upon a time,’” he began again, “‘there was a man whose chief happiness came from seeing others happy. He was indeed an absolute altruist.
“‘Now it so fell about that this altruist was a professional writer, and wove tales for the magazines, and one day, being in a happy mood, caused by his having given his last crust and his last shirt to a professional beggar, he wove a story for a competition and was so fortunate as to receive the capital prize of $1,000.00.’”