Mr. Ferris hesitated, cast one glance toward the open lawn beyond the shrubbery, another to the amber parasol, and sat down in the other corner. Mr. Hopworthy slipped from the table to the vacant chair.
"An almoner," explained the Stylus, in as nearly an undertone as the letter of courtesy permitted, "is a sort of treasurer, you know.... In a monastery, you understand.... The monk who distributes alms and that sort of thing."
"Oh, then it is a mediæval story!" cried Mabel. "How delightful!"
"No, modern," corrected Mr. Hopworthy.
"Modern in setting, though mediæval in spirit," said Mr. Ferris, taking off his hat.
"Ah, that, indeed!" breathed Mr. Hopworthy. "I shall not soon forget your opening description; that picture of the old cathedral, lighted only by the far, faint flicker of an occasional taper, burning before some shrined saint. I can see him now, Ignatius, the young monk, as he moves in silence from one to another of the alms-boxes, gathering into his leathern bag the offerings that have been deposited by the faithful."
"I think he had a light," suggested the author of short stories, who was listening, critically.
"Of course; a flaming torch."
"How sweet of him!" Mabel murmured, and Mr. Hopworthy went on.