im. "You want the fresh air. Send for
the gardener. Let us take a drive in your pony-chaise."

It was useless. Ariel would be noticed. The mournful cry came once
more--

"Where's the story? where's the story?"

The sinking spirit leaped up in Dexter again.

"You wretch! you fiend!" he cried, whirling his chair around, and facing
her. "The story is coming. I _can_ tell it! I _will_ tell it! Wine! You
whimpering idiot, get me the wine. Why didn't I think of it before? The
kingly Burgundy! that's what I want, Valeria, to set my invention alight
and flaming in my head. Glasses for everybody! Honor to the King of the
Vintages--the Royal Clos Vougeot!"

Ariel opened the cupboard in the alcove, and produced the wine and the
high Venetian glasses. Dexter drained his gobletful of Burgundy at a
draught; he forced us to drink (or at least to pretend to drink) with
him. Even Ariel had her share this time, and emptied her glass in
rivalry with her master. The powerful wine mounted almost instantly to
her weak head. She began to sing hoarsely a song of her own devising,
in imitation of Dexter. It was nothing but the repetition, the endless
mechanical repetition, of her demand for the story--"Tell us the story.
Master! master! tell us the story!" Absorbed over his wine, the Master
silently filled his goblet for the second time. Benjamin whispered to
me while his eye was off us, "Take my advice, Valeria, for once; let us
go."

"One last effort," I whispered back. "Only one!"

Ariel went drowsily on with her song--

"Tell us the story. Master! master! tell us the story."

Miserrimus Dexter looked up from his glass. The generous stimulant was
beginning to do its work. I saw the color rising in his face. I saw
the bright intelligence flashing again in his eyes. The Burgundy _had_
roused him! The good wine stood my friend, and offered me a last chance!

"No story," I said. "I want to talk to you, Mr. Dexter. I am not in the
humor for a story."

"Not in the humor?" he repeated, with a gleam of the old impish irony
showing itself again in his face. "That's an excuse. I see what it is!
You think my invention is gone--and you are not frank enough to confess
it. I'll show you you're wrong. I'll show you that Dexter is himself
again. Silence, you Ariel, or you shall leave the room! I have got it,
Mrs. Valeria, all laid out here, with scenes and characters complete."
He touched his forehead, and looked at me with a furtive and smilin