"It was in the days of our Lord 1348 that there happened in Florence, the finest city in Italy—"
And the Violinist, who was leaning against a tree, touched an imaginary mandolin, concluding: "A most terrible plague."
The Critic leaped to his feet.
"A corking idea," he cried.
"Mine, mine own," replied the Sculptor. "I propose that what those who, in the days of the terrible plague, took refuge at the Villa Palmieri, did to pass away the time, we, who are watching the war approach—as our host says it will—do here. Let us, instead of disputing, each tell a story after dinner—to calm our nerves,—or otherwise."
At first every one hooted.
"I could never tell a story," objected the Divorcée.
"Of course you can," declared the Journalist. "Everybody in the world has one story to tell."
"Sure," exclaimed the Lawyer. "No embargo on subjects?"
"I don't know," smiled the Doctor. "There is always the Youngster."