had been dismissed.
You can imagine how a thing like that upset my mother. Old Colonial
morality was pretty strict I have read, and in any case when these
things happen in your own family it is very different from reading about
them in the Press. But what raised our worry still higher was the
curious fact that although he had been expelled and put on the London
train at Maldon, he hadn't turned up."

There was another pause as Mr. Carville struck a match. It was nearly
dark and we watched his face reflecting the glow. Suddenly Bill realized
the time and rose.

"Won't you stay to dinner?" she asked.

"No thank you," he said. "Mrs. Carville's going into Newark this
evening, I believe, and we're going to take the boys to a show." He
rose. "I must get back. Good-night."

"Come in and finish your story," said Mac.

"All right. Good-night and thank you." He lifted his hat and stepped off
the porch.

CHAPTER VII

DIAPORESIS

The discussion at dinner that evening was unexpectedly animated. We all
had our theories to propound, our notes to compare and our criticisms to
offer. To this I contributed my share, but reserved a conclusion to
which I had been approaching all through the tale. I wished to submit it
to the tests of coffee and music, to become more familiar with it before
I exposed it to Bill's shrewd scrutiny and Mac's sardonic judgment.

To my surprise they insisted upon the strangeness of the story.

"To my mind," I said, "the story can scarcely be called strange, so
far."

"I wonder where his brother got to after he was expelled," said Bill.

"Do you think Cecil's man is the brother?" asked Mac.

"You mean interesting," I continued.

"Well," said Mac, "interesting if you like. That don't make it any the
less strange. Is Cecil's man----?"

"The really strange part of this man's story," I declared, oracularly,
"is the fact that he is telling it; mark that! And a stranger thing
still is the _way_ he is telling it!"

"Ex cathedra!" said Mac, sarcastically.

"Explain it all over again," said Bill.

I did so, but they saw no brilliance in my explanation. They were
artistic, but not artistic enough to appreciate the nuance of the
story-telling art. Perhaps this is nothing against them. Each to his
trade. And yet--_sugar-plums_!

It pleased my friend that evening to undertake the rendering of a work
which, unfortunately, can only be butchered on a piano. Of all Wagner's
music the _Walkueren_