"You see my little problem," he observed. "The rest is immaterial."
"But I so liked the part where the young monk, filled with his noble purpose, stole from the monastery by night," said Mr. Hopworthy. "Ah, there was a touch of realism."
"I'm glad you fancied it," replied the author, relapsing into silence.
Mabel tapped the gravel with her foot; it is strange how audible a trifling sound becomes at times.
"Please tell me what he did," she begged. "I never heard a story in which so little happened."
The writer of short stories bit his full red lip, and sat erect.
"The young monk waited till the house was wrapped in sleep," he said, almost defiantly, it seemed. "Then, drawing the great bolt, he went out into the night. The harvest moon was in the sky, and——"
"It rained, I think," suggested Mr. Hopworthy.
"No matter if it did," rejoined the other. "Unmindful of the elements, he wound his cowl about him, and pressed on, fearlessly, into the forest, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. Mile after mile he strode—and strode—and strode—until—until—it was time to return——"