 Mrs. Ballinger is one of the ladies who pursue culture and bands, as though it were dangerous to meet alone. To this end she had founded the Lunch Club, an association composed of herself and several other indomitable huntresses of erudition. The Lunch Club, after three or four winters of launching and debate, had acquired such local distinction that the entertainment of distinguished strangers became one of its accepted functions, in recognition of which it duly extended to the celebrated Osric Dane, on the day of her arrival in Hillbridge, an invitation to be present at the next meeting. The club was to meet at Mrs. Ballinger's. The other members, behind her back, were of one voice in deploring her unwillingness to cede her rights in favor of Mrs. Plinth, whose house made a more impressive setting for the entertainment of celebrities. While, as Mrs. Leverett observed, there was always the picture gallery to fall back on. Mrs. Plinth made no secret of sharing this view. She had always regarded it as one of her obligations to entertain the Lunch Club's distinguished guests. Mrs. Plinth was almost as proud of her obligations as she was of her picture gallery. She was in fact fond of implying that the one possession implied the other, and that only a woman of her wealth could afford to live up to a standard as high as that which she had set herself. An all-round sense of duty, roughly adaptable to various ends, was, in her opinion, all that Providence exacted of the more humbly stationed, but the power which had predestined Mrs. Plinth to keep a footman clearly intended her to maintain an equally specialized staff of responsibilities. It was the more to be regretted that Mrs. Ballinger, whose obligations to society were bounded by the narrow scope of two parlor maids should have been so tenacious of the right to entertain Osric Dane. The question of that lady's reception had, for a month past, profoundly moved the members of the Lunch Club. It was not that they felt themselves unequal to the task, but that their sense of the opportunity plunged them into the agreeable uncertainty of the lady who weighs the alternatives of a well-stocked wardrobe. If such subsidiary members as Mrs. Leverett were fluttered by the thought of exchanging ideas with the author of The Wings of Death, no forebodings disturbed the conscious adequacy of Mrs. Plinth, Mrs. Ballinger, and Ms. Van Vlaik. The Wings of Death had, in fact, at Ms. Van Vlaik's suggestion, been chosen as the subject of discussion at the last club meeting, and each member had thus been enabled to express her own opinion or to appropriate whatever sounded well in the comments of others. Mrs. Roby alone had abstained from profiting by the opportunity, but it was now openly recognized that, as a member of the Lunch Club, Mrs. Roby was a failure. It all comes, as Ms. Van Vlaik put it, of accepting a woman on a man's estimation. Mrs. Roby, returning to Hillbridge from a prolonged sojourn in exotic lands, the other ladies no longer took the trouble to remember where, had been heralded by the distinguished biologist, Professor Foreland, as the most agreeable woman he had ever met, and the members of the Lunch Club impressed by an encomium that carried the weight of a diploma, and rashly assuming that the Professor's social sympathies would follow the line of his professional bent, had seized the chance of annexing a biological member. Their disillusionment was complete. At Ms. Van Vlaik's first offhand mention of the pterodactyl, Mrs. Roby had confusedly murmured, I know so little about meters, and after that painful betrayal of incompetence, she had prudently withdrawn from farther participation in the mental gymnastics of the club. I suppose she flattered him, Ms. Van Vlaik summed up, or else it's the way she does her hair. The dimensions of Ms. Van Vlaik's dining room, having restricted the membership of the club to six, the non-conductiveness of one member was a serious obstacle to the exchange of ideas, and some wonder had already been expressed that Mrs. Roby should care to live, as it were, on the intellectual bounty of the others. This feeling was increased by the discovery that she had not yet read The Wings of Death. She owned to having heard the name of Osric Dane, but that, incredible as it appeared, was the extent of her acquaintance with the celebrated novelist. The ladies could not conceal their surprise, but Mrs. Ballinger, whose pride in the club made her wish to put even Mrs. Roby in the best possible light, gently insinuated that, though she had not had time to acquaint herself with The Wings of Death, she must at least be familiar with its equally remarkable predecessor, The Supreme Instant. Mrs. Roby wrinkled her sunny brows in a conscientious effort of memory, as a result of which she recalled that, oh yes, she had seen the book at her brothers when she was staying with him in Brazil, and had even carried it off to read one day on a boating party, but they had all got to shying things at each other in the boat, and the book had gone overboard, so she had never had the chance. The picture evoked by this anecdote did not increase Mrs. Roby's credit with the club, and there was a painful pause, which was broken by Mrs. Plintz remarking, I can understand that, with all your other pursuits, you should not find much time for reading, but I should have thought you might at least have got up The Wings of Death before Osric Dane's arrival. Mrs. Roby took this rebuke good-humoredly. She had meant she owned to glance through the book, but she had been so absorbed in a novel of trollops that no one reads trollop now, Mrs. Ballinger interrupted. Mrs. Roby looked pained, I'm only just beginning, she confessed. And does he interest you, Mrs. Plintz inquired. He amuses me. Amusement, said Mrs. Plintz, is hardly what I look for in my choice of books. Oh, certainly The Wings of Death is not amusing, ventured Mrs. Leverett, whose manner of putting forth an opinion was like that of an obliging salesman with a variety of other styles to submit if his first selection does not suit. Was it meant to be? inquired Mrs. Plintz, who was fond of asking questions that she permitted no one but herself to answer, assuredly not. Assuredly not, that is what I was going to say, assented Mrs. Leverett, hastily rolling up her opinion and reaching for another. It was meant to, to elevate. Ms. Van Vlaik adjusted her spectacles, as though they were the black cap of condemnation. I hardly see, she interposed, how a book steeped in the bitterest pessimism can be said to elevate however much it may instruct. I meant, of course, to instruct, said Mrs. Leverett, flurried by the unexpected distinction between two terms which she had supposed to be synonymous. Mrs. Leverett's enjoyment of the lunch club was frequently marred by such surprises, and not knowing her own value to the other ladies as a mirror for their mental complacency, she was sometimes troubled by a doubt of her worthiness to join in their debates. It was only the fact of having a dull sister who thought her clever that saved her, from a sense of hopeless inferiority. Do they get married in the end, Mrs. Robie interposed? They, who, the lunch club collectively exclaimed? Why, the girl in man, it's a novel, isn't it? I always think that's the one thing that matters. If they're parted, it spoils my dinner. Mrs. Plinth and Mrs. Ballinger exchanged scandalized glances, and the latter said, I should hardly advise you to read The Wings of Death in that spirit, for my part, when there are so many books one has to read, I wonder how anyone can find time for those that are merely amusing. The beautiful part of it, Laura Glide murmured, is surely just this, that no one can tell how The Wings of Death ends. Osric Dane, overcome by the awful significance of her own meaning, has mercifully veiled it, perhaps even from herself, as appellies in representing the sacrifice of Iphigenia veiled the face of Agamemnon. What's that? Is it poetry? whispered Mrs. Leverett to Mrs. Plinth, who, disdaining a definite reply, said coldly, You should look it up. I always make it a point to look things up. Her tone added, Though I might easily have it done for me by the footman. I was about to say, Ms. Van Vlake resumed, that it must always be a question whether a book can unstruct unless it elevates. Oh, murmured Mrs. Leverett, now feeling herself hopelessly astray. I don't know, said Mrs. Ballinger, sending in Ms. Van Vlake's tone a tendency to depreciate the coveted distinction of entertaining Osric Dane. I don't know that such a question can seriously be raised as to a book which has attracted more attention among thoughtful people than any novel since Robert Ellesmere. Oh, but don't you see, exclaimed Laura Glide, that it's just the dark hopelessness of it all, the wonderful tone scheme of black on black that makes it such an artistic achievement? It reminded me when I read it of Prince Rupert's Menier Noir. The book is etched, not painted, yet one feels the color values so intensely. Who is he? Mrs. Leverett whispered to her neighbor. Someone she's met abroad? The wonderful part of the book, Mrs. Ballinger conceded, is that it may be looked at from so many points of view. I hear that as a study of determinism, Professor Lupten ranks it with the data of ethics. I'm told that Osric Dane spent ten years in preparatory studies before beginning to write it, said Mrs. Plinth. She looks up everything, verifies everything. It has always been my principle, as you know. Nothing would induce me now to put aside a book before I'd finished it, just because I can buy as many more as I want. And what do you think of the Wings of Death, Mrs. Robie abruptly asked her? It was the kind of question that might be termed out of order, and the ladies glanced at each other as though disclaiming any share in such a breach of discipline. They all knew there was nothing Mrs. Plinth so much disliked as being asked her opinion of a book. Books were written to be read. If one read them, what more could be expected? To be questioned in detail regarding the contents of a volume seemed to her as great an outrage as being searched for smuggled laces at the Custom House. The club had always respected this idiosyncrasy of Mrs. Plinth's. Such opinions as she had were imposing and substantial. Her mind, like her house, was furnished with monumental pieces that were not meant to be disarranged, and it was one of the unwritten rules of the lunch club that, within her own province, each member's habits of thought should be respected. The meeting therefore closed with an increased sense on the parts of the other ladies of Mrs. Robie's hopeless unfitness to be one of them. Part 2. Mrs. Leverett on the eventful day arrived early at Mrs. Ballinger's, her volume of appropriate illusions in her pocket. It always flustered Mrs. Leverett to be late at the lunch club. She liked to collect her thoughts and gather a hint as the others assembled of the term the conversation was likely to take. Today, however, she felt herself completely at a loss, and even the familiar contact of appropriate illusions, which stuck into her as she sat down, failed to give her any reassurance. It was an admirable little volume compiled to meet all the social emergencies, so that whether on the occasion of anniversaries, joyful or melancholy, as the classification ran, of banquets, social or municipal, or of baptisms, Church of England or sectarian, its student need never be at a loss for a pertinent reference. Mrs. Leverett, though she had for years devoutly conned its pages, valued it, however, rather for its moral support than for its practical services, for though in the privacy of her own room she commanded an army of quotations, these invariably deserted her at the critical moment, and the only phrase she retained, canst thou draw out Leviathan with a hook, was one she had never yet found occasion to apply. Today she felt that even the complete mastery of the volume would hardly have ensured her self-possession, for she thought it probable that, even if she did, in some miraculous way, remember an illusion, it would only be defined that Osric Dane used a different volume. Mrs. Leverett was convinced that literary people always carried them, and would consequently not recognize her quotations. Mrs. Leverett's sense of being adrift was intensified by the appearance of Mrs. Ballinger's drawing room. To a careless eye its aspect was unchanged, but those acquainted with Mrs. Ballinger's way of arranging her books would instantly have detected the marks of recent perturbation. Mrs. Ballinger's province, as a member of the lunch club, was the book of the day. On that, whatever it was, from a novel to a treatise on experimental psychology, she was confidently, authoritatively, up. What became of last year's books, or last weeks even, what she did with the subjects she had previously professed with equal authority no one had ever yet discovered. Her mind was in hotel, where facts came and went like transient lodgers, without leaving their address behind, and frequently without paying for their board. It was Mrs. Ballinger's boast that she was abreast with the thought of the day, and her pride that this advanced position should be expressed by the books on her table. These volumes, frequently renewed and almost always damped from the press, bore names generally unfamiliar to Mrs. Leverett, and giving her, as she furtively scanned them, a disheartening glimpse of new fields of knowledge to be breathlessly traversed in Mrs. Ballinger's wake. But today, a number of mature-looking volumes were adroitly mangled with the premier of the press, Karl Marx jostled Professor Bergson, and the confessions of St. Augustine lay beside the last work on mentalism, so that even to Mrs. Leverett's fluttered perceptions, it was clear that Mrs. Ballinger didn't in the least know what Osric Dane was likely to talk about, and had taken measures to be prepared for anything. Mrs. Leverett felt like a passenger on an ocean steamer, who was told that there was no immediate danger, but that she had better put on her life belt. It was a relief to be roused from these forebodings by Ms. Van Blak's arrival. Well, my dear, the newcomer briskly asked her hostess, what subjects are we to discuss today? Mrs. Ballinger was furtively replacing a volume of words worth by a copy of Relaine. I hardly know, she said somewhat nervously, perhaps we had better leave that to circumstances. Circumstances, said Ms. Van Blak dryly, that means, I suppose, that Laura Glide will take the floor as usual, and we shall be deluged with literature. Philanthropian statistics were Ms. Van Blak's province, and she resented any tendency to divert their guests' attention from these topics. Mrs. Plinth at this moment appeared. Literature, she protested in a tone of remonstrance, but this is perfectly unexpected. I understood we were to talk of Osric Dane's novel. Mrs. Ballinger winced at the discrimination, but let it pass. We can hardly make that our chief subject, at least not too intentionally, she suggested. Of course we can let our talk drift in that direction, but we ought to have some other topic as an introduction, and that is what I wanted to consult you about. The fact is, we know so little of Osric Dane's tastes and interests, that it is difficult to make any special preparation. It may be difficult, said Mrs. Plinth with decision, but it is necessary. I know what that happy-go-lucky principle leads to. As I told one of my nieces the other day, there are certain emergencies for which a lady should always be prepared. It's in shocking taste to wear colors when one pays a visit of condolence, or a last year's dress when there are reports that one's husband is on the wrong side of the market, and so it is with conversation. All I ask is that I should know beforehand what is to be talked about, then I feel sure of being able to say the proper thing. I quite agree with you, Mrs. Ballinger assented, but, and at that instant, heralded by the fluttered parlor maid, Osric Dane appeared upon the threshold. Mrs. Leverett told her sister afterward that she had known at a glance what was coming. She saw that Osric Dane was not going to meet them halfway. That distinguished personage had indeed entered with an air of compulsion, not calculated to promote the easy exercise of hospitality. She looked as though she were about to be photographed for a new edition of her books. The desire to propitiate a divinity is generally an inverse ratio to its responsiveness, and the sense of discouragement produced by Osric Dane's entrance visibly increased the lunch club's eagerness to please her. Any lingering idea that she might consider herself under an obligation to her entertainers was at once dispelled by her manner. As Mrs. Leverett said afterward to her sister, she had a way of looking at you that made you feel as if there was something wrong with your hat. This evidence of greatness produced such an immediate impression on the ladies that a shutter of awe ran through them when Mrs. Robie, as their hostess led the great personage into the dining room, turned back to whisper to the others, what a brute she is. The hour about a table did not tend to revise this verdict. It was passed by Osric Dane in the silent deglutition of Mrs. Bollinger's menu, and by the members of the club in the emission of tentative platitudes which their guests seemed to swallow as perfunctorily as the successive courses of the luncheon. Mrs. Bollinger's reluctance to fix a topic had thrown the club into a mental disarray which increased with the return to the drawing room where the actual business of discussion was to open. Each lady waited for the other to speak, and there was a general shock of disappointment when their hostess opened the conversation by the painfully commonplace enquiry, is this your first visit to Hillbridge? Even Mrs. Leverett was conscious that this was a bad beginning, and a vague impulse of deprecation made Miss Glide interject, it is a very small place indeed. Mrs. Plinth bristled, we have a great many representative people, she said, in the tone of one who speaks for her order. Osric Dane turned to her, what do they represent, she asked. Mrs. Plinth's constitutional dislike to being questioned was intensified by her sense of unpreparedness, and her general reproachful glance passed the question on to Mrs. Bollinger. Why, said that lady, glancing in turn at the other members, as a community I hope it is not too much to say that we stand for culture? For art, Miss Glide interjected, for art and literature, Mrs. Bollinger amended, and for sociology I trust, snapped Miss Van Blike. We have a standard, said Mrs. Plinth, feeling herself suddenly secure on the vast expanse of a generalization, and Mrs. Leverett thinking there must be room for more than one on so broad a statement took courage to murmur, oh certainly, we have a standard. The object of our little club, Mrs. Bollinger continued, is to concentrate the highest tendencies of Hillbridge, to centralize and focus its intellectual effort. This was felt to be so happy that the ladies drew an almost audible breath of relief. We aspire, the President went on, to be in touch with whatever is highest in art, literature, and ethics. Osric Dane again turned to her. What ethics, she asked. A tremor of apprehension encircled the room, none of the ladies required any preparation to pronounce on a question of morals, but when they were called ethics it was different. The club, when fresh from the Encyclopedia Britannica, the Reader's Handbook, or Smith's classical dictionary, could deal confidently with any subject, but when taken unawares it had been known to define agnosticism as a heresy of the early church and Professor Froud as a distinguished histologist, and such minor members as Mrs. Leverett still secretly regarded ethics as something vaguely pagan. Even to Mrs. Bollinger, Osric's Dane's question was unsettling, and there was a general sense of gratitude when Laura Glyde leaned forward to say, with her most sympathetic accent, you must excuse us, Mrs. Dane, for not being able, just at present, to talk of anything but the wings of death. Yes, said Miss Van Vlaik, with a sudden resolve to carry the war into the enemy's camp, we are so anxious to know the exact purpose you had in mind in writing your wonderful book. You will find, Mrs. Plinth interposed, that we are not superficial readers. We are eager to hear from you, Miss Van Vlaik continued, if the pessimistic tendency of the book is an expression of your own convictions, or merely Miss Glyde thrust in, a somber background brushed in to throw your figures into more vivid relief. Are you not primarily plastic? I have always maintained, Mrs. Bollinger interposed, that you represent the purely objective method. Osric Dane helped herself critically to copy. How do you define objective, she then inquired. There was a flurried pause before Laura Glyde intensely murmured, in reading you we don't define, we feel. Osric Dane smiled. The cerebellum, she remarked, is not infrequently the seat of the literary emotions. And she took a second lump of sugar. The sting that this remark was vaguely felt to conceal was almost neutralized by the satisfaction of being addressed in such technical language. Ah, the cerebellum, said Miss Van Vlaik complacently. The club took a course in psychology last winter. Which psychology? asked Osric Dane. There was an agonizing pause, during which each member of the club secretly deplored the distressing inefficiency of the others. Only Mrs. Robie went on placidly sipping her chartreuse. At last Mrs. Bollinger said, with an attempt at a high tone, well really you know, it was last year that we took psychology, and this winter we have been so absorbed in, she broke off nervously trying to recall some of the club's discussions, but her faculties seem to be paralyzed by the petrifying stare of Osric Dane. What had the club been absorbed in? Mrs. Bollinger, with a vague purpose of gaining time, repeated slowly, we've been so intensely absorbed in, Mrs. Robie put down her liqueur glass and drew near the group with a smile. In shingu, she gently prompted. A thrill ran through the other members. They exchanged confused glances, and then, with one accord, turned a gaze of mingled relief and interrogation on their rescuer. The expression of each denoted a different phase of the same emotion. Mrs. Plinth was the first to compose her features to an air of reassurance. After a moment's hasty adjustment, her look almost implied that it was she who had given the word to Mrs. Bollinger. Jingoo, of course, exclaimed the latter with her accustomed promptness, while Miss Van Vlaik and Laura Glide seemed to be plumbing the depths of memory, and Mrs. Leverett, feeling apprehensively for appropriate illusions, was somehow reassured by the uncomfortable pressure of its bulk against her person. Osric Dane's change of countenance was no less striking than that of her entertainers. She, too, put down her coffee-cup, but with a look of distinct annoyance. She, too, wore, for a brief moment, what Mrs. Robie afterward described as the look of feeling for someone in the back of her head, and before she could disassemble these momentary signs of weakness, Mrs. Robie, turning to her with a differential smile, had said, and we've been so hoping that today you would tell us just what you think of it. Osric Dane received the homage of the smile as a matter of course, but the accompanying question obviously embarrassed her, and it became clear to her observers that she was not quick at shifting her facial scenery. It was as though her countenance had so long been set in an expression of unchallenged superiority that the muscles had stiffened and refused to obey her orders. Jingoo, she said, as if seeking in her turn to gain time, Mrs. Robie continued to press her. Knowing how engrossing the subject is, you'll understand how it happens that the club has let everything else go to the wall for the moment. Since we took up Jingoo, I might almost say, were it not for your books, that nothing else seems to us worth remembering. Osric Dane's stern features were darkened rather than lit up by an uneasy smile. I am glad to hear that you make one exception, she gave out between narrowed lips. Oh, of course, Mrs. Robie said prettily, but as you have shown us that, so very naturally, you don't care to talk of your own things, we really can't let you off from telling us exactly what you think about Jingoo, especially, she added with a still more persuasive smile, as some people say that one of your last books was saturated with it. It was an it, then, the assurance sped like fire through the parched minds of the other members. In their eagerness to gain the least little clue to Jingoo, they almost forgot the joy of assisting at the discomforture of Mrs. Dane. The latter read in nervously under her antagonists challenge. May I ask, she faltered out, to which of my books you refer? Mrs. Robie did not falter, that's just what I want you to tell us, because, though I was present, I didn't actually take part. Present at what, Mrs. Dane took her up, and for an instant the trembling members of the lunch club thought that the champion Providence had raised up for them had lost a point. But Mrs. Robie explained herself gaily. At the discussion, of course, and so we're dreadfully anxious to know just how it was that you went into the Jingoo. There was a portentous pause, a silence so big with incalculable dangers, that the members with one accord checked the words on their lips, like soldiers dropping their arms to watch a single combat between their leaders. Then Mrs. Dane gave expression to their inmost dread by saying sharply, Ah, you say the Jingoo, do you? Mrs. Robie smiled undauntedly. It is a shade pedantic, isn't it? Personally, I always drop the article, but I don't know how the other members feel about it. The other members looked as though they would willingly have dispensed with this appeal to their opinion, and Mrs. Robie, after a bright glance about the group, went on, they probably think, as I do, that nothing really matters except the thing itself, except Jingoo. No immediate reply seemed to occur to Mrs. Dane, and Mrs. Ballinger gathered courage to say, Surely everyone must feel that about Jingoo. Mrs. Plinth came to her support with a heavy murmur of assent, and Laura Glide sighed out emotionally, I have known cases where it has changed a whole life. It has done me worlds of good, Mrs. Leverett interjected, seeming to herself to remember that she had either taken it or read it the winter before. Of course, Mrs. Robie admitted, the difficulty is that one must give up so much time to it. It's very long. I can't imagine, said Miss Van Vlaik, grudging the time given to such a subject. And deep in places, Mrs. Robie pursued. So then it was a book. And it isn't easy to skip. I never skip, said Mrs. Plinth dogmatically. Ah, it's dangerous, too, in Jingoo. Even at the start there are places where one can't. One must just wade through. I should hardly call it wading, said Mrs. Ballinger sarcastically. Mrs. Robie sent her a look of interest. Ah, you always found it when swimmingly? Mrs. Ballinger hesitated. Of course, there are difficult passages, she conceded. Yes, some are not at all clear, even, Mrs. Robie added, if one is familiar with the original. As I suppose you are, Osric Dane interposed, suddenly fixing her with a look of challenge. Mrs. Robie met it by a deprecating gesture. Oh, it's really not difficult up to a certain point, though some of the branches are very little known, and it's almost impossible to get at the source. Have you ever tried, Mrs. Plinth inquired, still distrustful of Mrs. Robie's thoroughness? Mrs. Robie was silent for a moment. Then she replied with lowered lids. No. But a friend of mine did. A very brilliant man. And he told me it was best for women not to. A shutter ran around the room. Mrs. Leverett coughed so that the parlor maid, who was handing the cigarettes, should not hear. Ms. Van Vlijk's face took on a nauseated expression, and Mrs. Plinth looked as if she were passing someone she did not care to bow to. But the most remarkable result of Mrs. Robie's words was the effect they produced on the lunch club's distinguished guest. Osric Dane's impassive features suddenly softened to an expression of the warmest human sympathy. And edging her chair toward Mrs. Robie's, she asked, did he really, and did you find he was right? Mrs. Ballinger, in whom annoyance at Mrs. Robie's unwanted assumption of prominence was beginning to displace gratitude for the aid she had rendered, could not consent to her being allowed by such dubious means to monopolize the attention of their guest. If Osric Dane had not enough self-respect to resent Mrs. Robie's flippancy, at least the lunch club would do so in the person of its president. Mrs. Ballinger laid her hand on Mrs. Robie's arm. We must not forget, she said with a frigid amiability, that absorbing as Jingu is to us, it may be less interesting to, oh no, on the contrary, I assure you, Osric Dane intervened. To others, Mrs. Ballinger finished firmly, and we must not allow our little meeting to end without persuading Mrs. Dane to say a few words to us on a subject which, today, is much more present in all our thoughts. I refer, of course, to the wings of death. The other members, animated by various degrees of the same sentiment, and encouraged by the humanized main of their redoubtable guest, repeated after Mrs. Ballinger, oh yes, you really must talk to us a little about your book. Osric Dane's expression became as bored, though not as haughty, as when her work had been previously mentioned. But before she could respond to Mrs. Ballinger's request, Mrs. Robie had risen from her seat and was pulling down her veil over her frivolous nose. I'm so sorry, she said advancing towards her hostess with outstretched hand, but before Mrs. Dane begins, I think I'd better run away. Unluckily, as you know, I haven't read her books, so I should be at a terrible disadvantage among you all, and besides, I have an engagement to play bridge. If Mrs. Robie had simply pleaded her ignorance of Osric Dane's work as a reason for withdrawing, the lunch club in view of her recent prowess might have approved such evidence of discretion, but to couple this excuse with the brazen announcement that she was foregoing the privilege for the purpose of joining a bridge-party was only one more instance of her deplorable lack of discrimination. The ladies were disposed, however, to feel that her departure, now that she had performed the sole service she was ever likely to render them, would probably make for greater order and dignity in the impending discussion, besides relieving them of the sense of self-distrust which her presence always mysteriously produced. Mrs. Ballinger therefore restricted herself to a formal murmur of regret, and the other members were just grouping themselves comfortably about Osric Dane when the latter, to their dismay, started up from the sofa on which she had been seated. Oh, wait! Do wait, and I'll go with you, she called out to Mrs. Robie, and, seizing the hands of the disconcerted members, she administered a series of farewell pressures with the mechanical haste of a railway conductor punching tickets. I'm so sorry, I'd quite forgotten she flung back at them from the threshold, and as she joined Mrs. Robie, who had turned in surprise at her appeal, the other ladies had the mortification of hearing her say, in a voice which she did not take the pains to lower, if you'll let me walk a little away with you, I should so like to ask you a few more questions about Jingu. The incident had been so rapid that the door closed on the departing pair before the other members had time to understand what was happening. Then a sense of the indignity put upon them by Osric Dane's unceremonious desertion began to contend with the confused feeling that they had been cheated out of their due without exactly knowing how or why. There was a silence during which Mrs. Ballinger, with a perfunctory hand, rearranged the skillfully grouped literature at which her distinguished guest had not so much as glanced. Then Mrs. Van Vlake tartly pronounced, well, I can't say that I consider Osric Dane's departure a great loss. This confession crystallized the resentment of the other members, and Mrs. Leverett exclaimed, I do believe she came on purpose to be nasty. It was Mrs. Plinth's private opinion that Osric Dane's attitude toward the lunch club might have been very different had it welcomed her in the majestic setting of the Plinth drawing rooms. But not liking to reflect on the inadequacy of Mrs. Ballinger's establishment, she sought a roundabout satisfaction in depreciating her lack of foresight. I said from the first that we ought to have had a subject ready. It's what always happens when you're unprepared. Now if we'd only got up Jingoo, the slowness of Mrs. Plinth's mental processes was always allowed for by the club, but this instance of it was too much for Mrs. Ballinger's equanimity. Jingoo, she scoffed, why it was the fact of our knowing so much more about it than she did, unprepared though we were, that made Osric Dane so furious. I should have thought that was plain enough to everybody. This retort impressed even Mrs. Plinth, and Laura Glide, moved by an impulse of generosity, said, Yes, we really ought to be grateful to Mrs. Robie for introducing the topic. It may have made Osric Dane furious, but at least it made her civil. I am glad we were able to show her, added Miss Van Vlake, that a broad and up-to-date culture is not confined to the great intellectual centres. This increased the satisfaction of the other members, and they began to forget their wrath against Osric Dane in the pleasure of having contributed to her discomforture. Miss Van Vlake thoughtfully rubbed her spectacles. What surprised me most, she continued, was that Fanny Robie should be so up on Jingoo. This remark threw a slight chill on the company, but Mrs. Ballinger said with an air of indulgent irony, Mrs. Robie always has the knack of making a little go a long way. Still, we certainly owe her a debt for happening to remember that she'd heard of Jingoo. And this was felt by the other members to be a graceful way of cancelling once for all the club's obligation to Mrs. Robie. Even Mrs. Leverett took courage to speed a timid shaft of irony. I fancy Osric Dane hardly expected to take a lesson in Jingoo at Hillbridge. Mrs. Ballinger smiled when she asked me what we represented. Do you remember? I wish I'd simply said we represented Jingoo. All the ladies laughed appreciatively at the sally, except Mrs. Plinth, who said after a moment's deliberation, I'm not sure it would have been wise to do so. Mrs. Ballinger, who was already beginning to feel as if she had launched at Osric Dane the retort which had just occurred to her, turned ironically on Mrs. Plinth. May I ask why, she inquired? Mrs. Plinth looked grave. Surely, she said, I understood from Mrs. Robie herself that the subject was one it was as well not to go into too deeply. Ms. Van Blik rejoined with precision. I think that applied only to an investigation of the origin of the—of the—and suddenly she found that her usually accurate memory had failed her. It's a part of the subject I never studied myself, she concluded. Nor I, said Mrs. Ballinger. Laura Glide bent toward them with widened eyes, and yet it seems, doesn't it, the part that is fullest of an esoteric fascination? I don't know on what you base that, said Ms. Van Blik argumentatively. Well, didn't you notice how intensely interested Osric Dane became as soon as she heard what the brilliant foreigner he was a foreigner, wasn't he, had told Mrs. Robie about the origin, the origin of the right, or whatever you call it? Mrs. Plinth looked disapproving, and Mrs. Ballinger visibly wavered. Then she said, it may not be desirable to touch on the—on that part of the subject in general conversation, but from the importance it evidently has to a woman of Osric Dane's distinction, I feel as if we ought not to be afraid to discuss it among ourselves, without gloves, though with closed doors, if necessary. I'm quite of your opinion, Ms. Van Blik came briskly to her support, on condition that is, that all grossness of language is avoided. Oh, I'm sure we shall understand without that, Mrs. Leverett hittered, and Laura Glide added significantly, I fancy we can read between the lines, while Mrs. Ballinger rose to assure herself that the doors were really closed. Mrs. Plinth had not yet given her adhesion. I hardly see, she began, what benefit is to be derived from investigating such peculiar customs, but Mrs. Ballinger's patience had reached the extreme limit of tension. This, at least, she returned, that we shall not be placed again in the humiliating position of finding ourselves less up on our own subjects than Fanny Roby. Even to Mrs. Plinth, this argument was conclusive. She peered furtively about the room, and lowered her commanding tones to ask, have you got a copy? A copy, stammered Mrs. Ballinger? She was aware that the other members were looking at her expectantly, and that this answer was inadequate, so she supported it by asking another question, a copy of what? Her companions bent their expectant gaze on Mrs. Plinth, who, in turn, appeared less sure of herself than usual. Why, of—of the book? she explained. What book? snapped Mrs. Van Vlijk, almost as sharply as Osric Dane. Mrs. Ballinger looked at Laura Glide, whose eyes were interrogatively fixed on Mrs. Leverett. The fact of being deferred was so new to the latter that it filled her with an insane temerity. Why, zhingu, of course, she exclaimed. A profound silence followed this challenge to the resources of Mrs. Ballinger's library, and the latter, after glancing nervously toward the books of the day, returned with dignity, it's not a thing one cares to leave about. I should think not, exclaimed Mrs. Plinth. It is a book, then, said Mrs. Van Vlijk. This again threw the company into disarray, and Mrs. Ballinger, with an impatient sigh, rejoined, Why, there is a book, naturally. Then why did Mrs. Glide call it a religion? Laura Glide started up a religion. I never—yes, you did, Mrs. Van Vlijk insisted. You spoke of rights, and Mrs. Plinth said it was a custom. Mrs. Glide was evidently making a desperate effort to recall her statement, but accuracy of detail was not her strongest point. At length she began in a deep murmur, Surely they used to do something of the kind at the Eleusinian mysteries. Oh! said Mrs. Van Vlijk on the verge of disapproval, and Mrs. Plinth protested, I understood there was to be no indelicacy. Mrs. Ballinger could not control her irritation. Really, it is too bad that we should not be able to talk the matter over quietly among ourselves. Personally, I think that if one goes into zingu at all, Oh! so do I! cried Mrs. Glide. And I don't see how one can avoid doing so if one wishes to keep up with the thought of the day. Mrs. Leverett uttered an exclamation of relief. There, that's it, she interposed. What's it, the President took her up? Why, it's a… a thought, I mean a philosophy. This seemed to bring a certain relief to Mrs. Ballinger and Laura Glide, but Mrs. Van Vlijk said, excuse me if I tell you that you're all mistaken, zingu happens to be a language. A language? the lunch club cried. Certainly, don't you remember Fanny Roby saying that there were several branches and that some were hard to trace? What could that apply to but dialects? Mrs. Ballinger could no longer restrain a contemptuous laugh. Really, if the lunch club has reached such a pass that it has to go to Fanny Roby for instruction on a subject like zingu, it had almost better ceased to exist. It's really her fault for not being clearer, Laura Glide put in. Oh, clearness and Fanny Roby, Mrs. Ballinger shrugged. I dare say we shall find she was mistaken on almost every point. Why not look it up? said Mrs. Plinth. As a rule, this recurrent suggestion of Mrs. Plinth's was ignored in the heat of discussion and only resorted to afterward in the privacy of each member's home, but on the present occasion the desire to ascribe their own confusion of thought to the vague and contradictory nature of Mrs. Roby's statements caused the members of the lunch club to utter a collective demand for a book of reference. At this point, the production of her treasured volume gave Mrs. Leverett, for a moment, the unusual experience of occupying the center front, but she was not able to hold it long for appropriate illusions contained no mention of zingu. Oh, that's not the kind of thing we want, exclaimed Miss Van Vlake. She cast a disparaging glance over Mrs. Ballinger's assortment of literature and added impatiently, haven't you any useful books? Of course I have, replied Mrs. Ballinger indignantly. I keep them in my husband's dressing room. From this region, after some difficulty and delay, the parlor maid produced the W through Z volume of an encyclopedia, and, in deference to the fact that the demand for it had come from Miss Van Vlake, laid the ponderous tome before her. There was a moment of painful suspense while Miss Van Vlake rubbed her spectacles, adjusted them, and turned to Z, and a murmur of surprise when she said, It isn't here. I suppose, said Mrs. Plinth, it's not fit to be put in a book of reference. Oh, nonsense, exclaimed Mrs. Ballinger. Try X. Miss Van Vlake turned back through the volume, peering shortsightedly up and down the pages, till she came to a stop and remained motionless, like a dog on a point. Well, have you found it, Mrs. Ballinger inquired, after a considerable delay? Yes, I've found it, said Miss Van Vlake in a queer voice. Mrs. Plinth hastily interposed. I beg you won't read it aloud if there's anything offensive. Miss Van Vlake, without answering, continued her silent scrutiny. Well, what is it, exclaimed Laura Glide excitedly? Do tell us, urged Mrs. Leverett, feeling that she would have something awful to tell her sister. Miss Van Vlake pushed the volume aside and turned slowly toward the expectant group. It's a river. A river? Yes, in Brazil. Isn't that where she's been living? Who? Fanny Roby? Oh, but you must be mistaken. You've been reading the wrong thing, Mrs. Ballinger exclaimed, leaning over her to seize the volume. It's the only Jingu in the Encyclopedia, and she has been living in Brazil, Miss Van Vlake persisted. Yes, her brother has a consulship there, Mrs. Leverett interposed. But it's too ridiculous. I—we— Why, we all remember studying Jingu last year, or the year before last, Mrs. Ballinger stammered. I thought I did when you said so, Laura Glide avowed. I said so? cried Mrs. Ballinger. Yes, you said it had crowded everything else out of your mind. Well, you said it had changed your whole life. For that matter, Miss Van Vlake said she had never grudged the time she'd given it. Mrs. Plinth interposed. I made it clear that I knew nothing whatever of the original. Mrs. Ballinger broke off the dispute with a groan. Oh, what does it all matter if she's been making fools of us? I believe Miss Van Vlake's right. She was talking of the river all the while. How could she? It's too preposterous, Miss Glide exclaimed. Listen, Miss Van Vlake had repossessed herself of the encyclopedia and restored her spectacles to a nose reddened by excitement. The Jingu, one of the principal rivers of Brazil, rises on the plateau of Mato Grosso, and flows in a northerly direction for a length of no less than 1,118 miles, entering the Amazon near the mouth of the Ladder River. The upper course of the Jingu is Ariferous and fed by numerous branches. Its source was first discovered in 1884 by the German explorer Vanden Steinen after a difficult and dangerous expedition through a region inhabited by tribes still in the Stone Age of culture. The ladies received this communication in a state of stupefied silence, from which Mrs. Leverett was the first to rally. She certainly did speak of its having branches. The words seemed to snap the last thread of their incredulity, and of its great length, gasped Mrs. Ballinger. She said it was awfully deep, and you couldn't skip, you just had to wade through, Miss Glide added. The idea worked its way more slowly through Mrs. Plint's compact resistances. How could there be anything improper about a river, she inquired? Improper? Why, what she said about the source, that it was corrupt? Not corrupt, but hard to get at, Laura Glide corrected. Someone who'd been there had told her so. I daresay it was the explorer himself. Didn't it say the expedition was dangerous? Difficult and dangerous, read Miss Van Vlake. Mrs. Ballinger pressed her hands to her throbbing temples. There's nothing she said that wouldn't apply to a river, to this river. She swung about excitedly to the other members. Why, do you remember her telling us that she hadn't read the Supreme Instant because she'd taken it on a boating party while she was staying with her brother, and someone had shied it overboard? Shied, of course, was her own expression. The ladies breathlessly signified that the expression had not escaped them. Well, and then didn't she tell Osric Dane that one of her books was simply saturated with jingu? Of course it was, if one of Mrs. Robie's rowdy friends had thrown it into the river. This surprising reconstruction of the scene in which they had just participated left the members of the lunch club in articulate. At length Mrs. Plint, after visibly laboring with the problem, said in a heavy tone, Osric Dane was taken in too. Mrs. Leverett took courage at this. Perhaps that's what Mrs. Robie did it for. She said Osric Dane was a brute, and she may have wanted to give her a lesson. Ms. Van Vlake frowned. It was hardly worthwhile to do it at our expense. At least said Miss Glide with a touch of bitterness. She succeeded in interesting her, which was more than we did. What chance had we rejoined Mrs. Ballinger? Mrs. Robie monopolized her from the first, and that, I've no doubt, was her purpose. To give Osric Dane a false impression of her own standing in the club. She would hesitate at nothing to attract attention. We all know how she took in poor Professor Forland. She actually makes him give bridge tees every Thursday, Mrs. Leverett piped up. Laura Glide struck her hands together. Why, this is Thursday, and it's there she's gone, of course, and taken Osric with her. And they're shrieking over us at this moment, said Mrs. Ballinger, between her teeth. This possibility seemed too preposterous to be admitted. She would hardly dare, said Miss Van Vlake. Confess the imposture to Osric Dane. I'm not so sure. I thought I saw her make a sign as she left. If she hadn't made a sign, why should Osric Dane have rushed out after her? Well, you know, we'd all been telling her how wonderful Jingu was, and she said she wanted to find out more about it, Mrs. Leverett said, with a tardy impulse of justice to the absent. This reminder, far from mitigating the wrath of the other members, gave it a stronger impetus. Yes, and that's exactly what they're both laughing over now, said Laura Glide, ironically. Mrs. Plintz stood up and gathered her expensive furs about her monumental form. I have no wish to criticize, she said, but unless the lunch club can protect its members against the recurrence of such unbecoming scenes, I, for one—oh, so do I, agreed Miss Glide, rising also. Miss Van Vlake closed the encyclopedia and proceeded to button herself into her jacket. My time is really too valuable, she began. I fancy we are all of one mind, said Mrs. Ballinger, looking searchingly at Mrs. Leverett, who looked at the others. I always deprecate anything like a scandal, Mrs. Plintz continued. She has been the cause of one today, exclaimed Mrs. Glide. Mrs. Leverett moaned, I don't see how she could. And Miss Van Vlake said, picking up her notebook, some women stop at nothing. But if Mrs. Plintz took up her argument impressively, anything of the kind had happened in my house—it never would have, her tone implied—I should have felt that I owed it to myself, either to ask for Mrs. Robbie's resignation, or to offer mine. Oh, Mrs. Plintz gasped the lunch club. Fortunately for me, Mrs. Plintz continued with awful magnanimity, the matter was taken out of my hands by our president's decision that the right to entertain distinguished guests was a privilege vested in her office, and I think the other members will agree that, as she was alone in this opinion, she ought to be alone in deciding on the best way of a facing its really deplorable consequences. A deep silence followed this outbreak of Mrs. Plintz's long-stored resentment. I don't see why I should be expected to ask her to resign, Mrs. Ballinger at length began, but Laura Glide turned back to remind her, you know she made you say that you'd got on swimmingly in Jingu. An ill-timed giggle escaped from Mrs. Leverett, and Mrs. Ballinger energetically continued, but you'd needn't think for a moment that I'm afraid to. The door of the drawing-room closed on the retreating backs of the lunch club, and the president of that distinguished association, seating herself at her writing-table, and pushing away a copy of The Wings of Death to make room for her elbow, drew forth a sheet of the club's note paper on which she began to write, My Dear Mrs. Robie. End of Jingu by Edith Wharton. Read by Rosie. THE YOUNG KING by Oscar Wilde It was the night before the day fixed for his coronation, and the young king was sitting alone in his beautiful chamber. His courtiers had all taken their leave of him, bowing their heads to the ground according to the ceremonious usage of the day, and had retired to the great hall of the palace to receive a few last lessons from the professor of etiquette. There being some of them who had still quite natural manners which in a courtier is, I need hardly say, a very grave offense. The lad, for he was only a lad, being but sixteen years of age, was not sorry at their departure, and had flung himself back with a deep sigh of relief on the soft cushions of his embroidered couch. Lying there wild-eyed and open-mouthed like a brown woodland fawn, or some young animal of the forest newly snared by the hunters. And, indeed, it was the hunters who had found him. Coming upon him almost by chance, as bare-limbed and pipe in hand, he was following the flock of the poor goat-herd who had brought him up, and whose son he had always fancied himself to be. The child of the old king's only daughter by a secret marriage with one much beneath her in station. A stranger, some said, who, by the wonderful magic of his loot-playing, had made the young princess love him. While others spoke of an artist from Rimini, to whom the princess had shown much, perhaps too much honor, and who had suddenly disappeared from the city, leaving his work in the cathedral unfinished, he had been, when but a week old, stolen away from his mother's side as she slept, and given into the charge of a common peasant and his wife who were without children of their own, and lived in a remote part of the forest more than a day's ride from the town. Grief or the plague, as the court physician stated, or as some suggested, a swift Italian poison administered in a cup of spiced wine, slew within an hour of her awakening the white girl who had given him birth. And as the trusty messenger who bear the child across his saddle-bow stopped from his weary horse and knocked at the rude door of the goat-herd's hut, the body of the princess was being lowered into an open grave that had been dug in a deserted churchyard beyond the city gates. A grave where it was said that another body was also lying, that of a young man of marvelous and foreign beauty whose hands were tied behind him with a knotted cord, and whose breast was stabbed with many red wounds. Such, at least, was the story that men whispered to each other. Certain it was that the old king went on his deathbed, whether moved by remorse for his great sin, or merely desiring that the kingdom should not pass away from his line had had the lads sent for, and in the presence of the council had acknowledged him as his heir. And it seems that from the very first moment of his recognition he had shown signs of that strange passion for beauty that was destined to have so great an influence over his life. Those who accompanied him to the suite of rooms set apart for his service often spoke of the cry of pleasure that broke from his lips when he saw the delicate rain-ment and rich jewels that had been prepared for him, and of the almost fierce joy with which he flung aside his rough leather and tunic and coarse sheepskin cloak. He missed indeed, at times, the fine freedom of his farest life, and was always apt to chafe at the tedious court ceremonies that occupied so much of each day. But the wonderful palace, joyous, as they called it, of which he now found himself lord, seemed to him to be a new world fresh-fashioned for his delight, and as soon as he could escape from the council-board or audience chamber he would run down the great staircase with its lions of gilt bronze and its steps of bright porphyry, and wander from room to room and from corridor to corridor, like one who was seeking to find in beauty an anodyne from pain, a sort of restoration from sickness. Upon these journeys of discovery, as he would call them, and indeed they were to him real voyages through a marvelous land, he would sometimes be accompanied by the slim fair-haired court pages with their floating mantles and gay-fluttering ribbons. But more often he would be alone, feeling through a certain quick instinct, which was almost a divination, that the secrets of art are best learned in secret, and that beauty, like wisdom, loves the lonely worshiper. Many curious stories were related about him at this period. It was said that a stout burgomaster who had come to deliver a florid oratorical address on behalf of the citizens of the town had caught sight of him kneeling in real adoration before a great picture that had just been brought from Venice and that seemed to herald the worship of some new gods. On another occasion he had been missed for several hours, and after a lengthened search had been discovered in a little chamber in one of the northern territs of the palace, gazing as one in a trance at a Greek gem carved with the figure of Adonis. He had been seen, so the tail ran, pressing his warm lips to the marble brow of an antique statue that had been discovered in the bed of the river on the occasion of the building of the stone bridge, and was inscribed with the name of the Bethany enslave of Hadrian. He had passed a whole night in noting the effect of the moonlight on a silver image of endymium. All rare and costly materials had certainly a great fascination for him, and in his eagerness to procure them he had sent away many merchants, some to traffic in amber with the rough fisherfolk of the North Seas, some to Egypt to look for that curious green turquoise which is found only in the tombs of kings and is said to possess magical properties, some to Persia for silken carpets and painted pottery, and others to India to buy gauze and stained ivory, moon stones and bracelets of jade, sandalwood and blue enamel and shawls of fine wool. But what had occupied him most was the robe he was to wear at his coronation, the robe of tissueed gold and the ruby studded crown and the scepter with its rose and rings of pearls. Indeed it was of this that he was thinking tonight as he lay back on his luxurious couch watching the great pinewood log that was burning itself out on the open hearth. The designs which were from the hands of the most famous artists of the time had been submitted to him many months before, and he had given orders that the artificers were to toil night and day to carry them out and that the whole world was to be searched for jewels that would be worthy of their work. He saw himself in fancy standing at the high altar of the cathedral in the fair ringment of a king, and a smile played and lingered about his boyish lips and lit up with a bright luster his dark woodland eyes. After some time he rose from his seat and, leaning against the carved penthouse of the chimney, looked round at the dimly lit room. The walls were hung with rich tapestries, representing the triumph of beauty. A large press inlaid with agate and lapis lazuli filled one corner, and facing the window stood a curiously wrought cabinet, with lacquer panels of powdered and mosaic gold on which were placed some delicate goblets of Venetian glass and a cup of dark veined onyx. Pale poppies were broidered on the silk coverlet of the bed, as though they had fallen from the tired hands of sleep, and tall reeds of fluted ivory bear up the velvet canopy from which great tufts of ostrich plume sprang like white foam to the pallid silver of the fretted ceiling. A laughing narcissist in green bronze held a polished mirror above its head. On the table stood a flat bowl of amethyst. Outside he could see the huge dome of the cathedral looming like a bubble over the shadowy houses, and the weary sentinels pacing up and down on the misty terrace by the river. Far away in an orchard a nightingale was singing. A faint perfume of jasmine came through the open window. He brushed his brown curls back from his forehead and taking up a loot let his fingers stray across the cords. His heavy eyelids drooped and a strange langer came over him. Never before had he felt so keenly or with such exquisite joy the magic and the mystery of beautiful things. When midnight sounded from the clock tower he touched a bell and his pages entered and disrobed him with much ceremony, pouring rose water over his hands and strewing flowers on his pillow. A few moments after that they had left the room he fell asleep, and as he slept he dreamed a dream, and this was his dream. He thought that he was standing in a long, low attic amidst the whirr and clatter of many looms. The meager daylight peered in through the grated windows and showed him the gaunt figures of the weavers bending over their cases. Pale, sickly-looking children were crouched on the huge cross-beams. As the shuttles dashed through the warp they lifted up the heavy battens and when the shuttles stopped they let the battens fall and pressed the threads together. Their faces were pinched with famine and their thin hands shook and trembled. Some haggard women were seated at a table sowing. A horrible odor filled the place. The air was foul and heavy, and the walls dripped and streamed with damp. The young king went over to one of the weavers and stood by him and watched. And the weaver looked at him angrily and said, Why aren't thou watching me? Are thou a spy set upon us by our master? Who is thy master? asked the young king. Our master cried the weaver bitterly. He is a man like myself. Indeed there is but this difference between us, that he wears fine clothes while I go in rags and that while I am weak from hunger he suffers not a little from over-feeding. The land is free, said the young king, and thou art no man slave. In war, answered the weaver, the strong make slaves of the weak and in peace the rich make slaves of the poor. We must work to live and they give us such mean wages that we die. We toil for them all day long and they heap up gold in their coffers and our children fade away before their time and the faces of those we love become hard and evil. We tread out the grapes and another drinks the wine. We sow the corn and our own board is empty. We have chains, though no eye beholds them and our slaves, though men call us free. Is it so with all? he asked. It is so with all, answered the weaver. With the young as well as the old, with the women as well as the men, with the little children as well as those who are stricken in years. The merchants grind us down and we must need do their bidding. The priest rides by and tells his beads and no man has care of us. Through our sunless lanes creeps poverty with her hungry eyes and sin with his sodden face follows close behind her. Misery wakes us in the morning and shame sits with us at night. But what are these things to thee? Thou art not one of us. Thy face is too happy. And he turned away scowling and threw the shuttle across the loom, and the young king saw that it was threaded with a thread of gold. And a great terror seized upon him and he said to the weaver, What robe is this that thou art weaving? It is the robe for the coronation of the young king, he answered. What is that to thee? And the young king gave a loud cry and woke and low he was in his own chamber and through the window he saw the great honey-colored moon hanging in the dusky air. And he fell asleep again and dreamed, and this was his dream. He thought that he was lying on the deck of a huge galley that was being rode by a hundred slaves. On a carpet by his side the master of the galley was seated, he was black as ebony and his turban was of crimson silk. Great earrings of silver dragged down the thick lobes of his ears and in his hands he had a pair of ivory scales. The slaves were naked but for a ragged loincloth and each man was chained to his neighbor. The hot sun beat brightly upon them and the negroes ran up and down the gangway and lashed them with whips of hide. They stretched out their lean arms and pulled the heavy oars through the water. The salt spray flew from the blades. At last they reached a little bay and began to take soundings. A light wind blew from the shore and covered the deck and the great latin sail with a fine red dust. Three Arabs mounted on wild asses rode out and threw spears at them. The master of the galley took a painted bow in his hand and shot one of them in the throat. He fell heavily into the surf and his companions galloped away. A woman wrapped in a yellow veil followed slowly on a camel, looking back now and then at the dead body. As soon as they had cast anchor and hauled down the sail the negroes went into the hold and brought up a long rope ladder heavily weighted with lead. The master of the galley threw it over the side, making the ends fast to two iron stanchions. Then the negroes seized the youngest of the slaves and knocked his guives off and filled his nostrils and his ears with wax and tied a big stone around his waist. He crept wearily down the ladder and disappeared into the sea. A few bubbles rose where he sank. Some of the other slaves peered curiously over the side. At the prowl of the galley sat a shark-charmer beating monotonously upon a drum. After some time the diver rose up out of the water and clung panting to the ladder with a pearl in his right hand. The negroes seized it from him and thrust him back. The slaves fell asleep over their oars. Again and again he came up and each time that he did so he brought with him a beautiful pearl. The master of the galley weighed them and put them into a little bag of green leather. The young king tried to speak but his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth and his lips refused to move. The negroes chattered to each other and began to quarrel over a string of bright beads. Two cranes flew round and round the vessel. Then the diver came up for the last time and the pearl that he brought with him was fairer than all the pearls of Ormuz for it was shaped like the full moon and wider than the morning star. But his face was strangely pale and as he fell upon the deck the blood gushed from his ears and nostrils. He quivered for a little and then he was still. The negroes shrugged their shoulders and threw the body overboard. And the master of the galley laughed and reaching out he took the pearl and when he saw it he pressed it to his far head and bowed. It shall be, he said, for the scepter of the young king and he made a sign to the negroes to draw up the anchor. And when the young king heard this he gave a cry and woke and threw the window he saw the long gray fingers of the dawn clutching at the fading stars. And he fell asleep again and dreamed and this was his dream. He thought that he was wandering through a dim wood hung with strange fruits and with beautiful poisonous flowers. The adders hissed at him as he went by and the bright parrots flew screaming from branch to branch. Huge tortoises lay asleep upon the hot mud. The trees were full of apes and peacocks. On and on he went till he reached the outskirts of the wood and there he saw an immense multitude of men toiling in the bed of a dried up river. They swarmed up the crag like ants. They dug deep pits in the ground and went down into them. Some of them cleft the rocks with great axes, others grabbled in the sand. They tore up the cactus by its roots and trampled on the scarlet blossoms. They hurried about calling to each other and no man was idle. From the darkness of a cavern death and avarice watched them. And death said, I am weary. Give me a third of them and let me go. But avarice shook her head. They are my servants, she answered. And death said to her, What hast thou in thy hand? I have three grains of corn, she answered. What is that to thee? Give me one of them and I will cry death to plant in my garden, only one of them and I will go away. I will not give thee anything, said avarice. And she hid her hand in the fold of her raiment. And death laughed and took a cup and dipped it into a pool of water. And out of the cup rose a hue. She passed through the great multitude and a third of them lay dead. A cold mist followed her and the water snakes ran by her side. And when avarice saw that a third of the multitude was dead she beat her breast and wept. She beat her barren bosom and cried aloud, Thou hast slain a third of my servants, she cried. Get thee gone! There is war in the mountains of Tartary and the kings of each side are calling to thee. The Afghans have slain the black ox and are marching to battle. They have beaten upon their shields with their spears and have put on their helmets of iron. What is my valley to thee that thou shouldst tarry in it? Get thee gone and come here no more. Nay, answered Death, but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I will not go. But avarice shut her hand and clenched her teeth. I will not give thee anything, she muttered. And death laughed and took up a black stone and threw it into the forest and out of a thicket of wild hemlock came fever in a robe of flame. She passed through the multitude and touched them and each man that she touched died. The grass withered beneath her feet as she walked. And avarice shuttered and put ashes on her head. Thou art cruel, she cried. Thou art cruel. There is famine in the waltz cities of India and the cisterns of Samarakhand have run dry. There is famine in the waltz cities of Egypt and the locusts have come up from the desert. The Nile has not overflowed its banks and the priests have cursed Isis and Osiris. Get thee gone to those who need thee and leave me my servants. Nay! answered Death. But till doubts has given me a grain of corn I will not go. I will not give thee anything, said avarice. And death laughed again and he whistled through his fingers and a woman came flying through the air. Plague was written upon her forehead and a crowd of lean vultures wheeled round her. She covered the valley with her wings and no man was left alive. And avarice fled shrieking through the forest and death leaped upon his red horse and galloped away and his galloping was faster than the wind. And out of the slime at the bottom of the valley crept dragons and horrible things with scales and the jackals came trotting along the sand sniffing up the air with their nostrils. And the young king wept and said, Who were these men and for what were they seeking? For rubies for a king's crown, answered one who stood behind him. And the young king started and turned round. He saw a man habited as a pilgrim and holding in his hand a mirror of silver. And he grew pale and said, For what king? And the pilgrim answered, Look in this mirror and thou shalt see him. And he looked in the mirror and seeing his own face he gave a great cry and woke, and the bright sunlight was streaming into the room and from the trees of the garden and plaisance the birds were singing. And the chamberlain and the high officers of state came in and made obeisance to him and the pages brought him the robe of tissueed gold and set the crown and the scepter before him. And the young king looked at them and they were beautiful, more beautiful were they than ought that he had ever seen. But he remembered his dreams and he said to his lords, Take these things away for I will not wear them. And the courtiers were amazed and some of them laughed for they thought that he was jesting. But he spake sternly to them again and said, Take these things away and hide them from me. Though it be the day of my coronation I will not wear them. For on the loom of sorrow and by the white hands of pain has this my robe been woven. There is blood in the heart of the ruby and death in the heart of the pearl. And he told them of his three dreams. And when the courtiers heard them they looked at each other and whispered, Saying, Surely he is mad for what is a dream but a dream and a vision but a vision. They are not real things that one should heed them. And what have we to do with the lives of those who toil for us? Shall a man not eat bread till he has seen the sower nor drink wine till he has talked with the vine-dresser? And that Chamberlain spake to the young king and said, My lord, I pray thee set aside these black thoughts of vine and put on this fair robe and set this crown upon thy head. For how shall the people know thou art a king if thou hast not a king's rain-ment? And the young king looked at him. Is it so? Indeed, he questioned, Will they not know me for a king if I have not a king's rain-ment? They will not know thee, my lord, cried the Chamberlain. I had thought that there had been men who were king-like, he answered. But it may be as thou sayest. And yet I will not wear this robe nor will I be crowned with this crown, but even as I came to the palace so will I go forth from it. And he bade them all leave him, save one page, whom he kept as his companion, a lad a year younger than himself. Him he kept for his service, and when he had bathed himself in clear water he opened a great painted chest, and from it he took the leathered tunic and rough sheepskin cloak that he had worn when he had watched on the hillside the shaggy goats of the goat herd. These he put on, and in his hand he took his rude shepherd staff. And the little page opened his big blue eyes in wonder, and said smiling to him, My lord, I see thy robe and thy scepter, but where is thy crown? And the young king plucked a spray of wild briar that was climbing over the balcony and bent it and made it a circlip of it, and set it on his own head. This shall be my crown, he answered. And thus attired he passed out of his chamber into the great hall where the nobles were waiting for him. And the nobles made merry, and some of them cried out, My lord, the people wait for their king and doubt show as them a beggar. And others were wroth and said, He brings shame upon our state and is unworthy to be our master. But he answered them not a word, but passed on and went down the bright porphyry staircase and out through the gates of bronze and mounted upon his horse and rode towards the cathedral the little page running beside him. And the people laughed and said, It is the king's fool who is riding by. And they mocked him. And he drew rain and said, Nay, but I am the king. And he told them his three dreams. And a man came out of the crowd and spake bitterly to him, and said, Sir, knowest thou not that out of the luxury of the rich cometh the life of the poor? By your pomp we are nurtured, and your vices give us bread. To toil for a hard master is bitter, but to have no master to toil for is more bitter still. Thinkest thou that the ravens will feed us? And what cure hast thou for these things? wilt thou say to the buyer, Thou shalt buy for so much, and to the seller thou shalt sell at this price? I trow not, therefore go back to thy palace and put on thy purple and find linen. What hast thou to do with us and what we suffer? Are not the rich and the poor brothers? asked the king. I answered the man, and the name of the rich brother is Cain. And the young king's eyes filled with tears, and he rode on through the murmurs of the people, and the little page grew afraid and left him. And when he reached the great portal of the cathedral the soldiers thrust their halberds out and said, What dost thou seek here? None enters by this door but the king. And his face flushed with anger, and he said at them, I am the king, and waved their halberds aside and passed in. And when the old bishop saw him coming in his goat-herd's dress he rose up in wonder from his throne and went to meet him, and said to him, My son, is this a king's apparel? And with what crown shall I crown thee? And what scepter shall I place in thy hand? Surely this should be to thee a day of joy and not a day of abasement. Shall joy wear what grief has fashioned? said the young king, and he told him his three dreams. And when the bishop had heard them he knit his brows and said, My son, I am an old man and in the winter of my days, and I know that many evil things are done in the wide world. The fierce robbers come down from the mountains and carry off the little children and sell them to the moors. The lions lie in wait for the caravans and leap upon the camels. The wild boar roots up the corn in the valley and the foxes gnaw the vines upon the hill. The pirates lay waste to the sea coast and burn the ships of the fishermen and take their nets from them. In the salt marshes live the lepers. They have houses of waddled reeds, and none may come nigh them. The beggars wander through the cities and eat their food with the dogs. Canst thou make these things not to be? Wilt thou take the leper for thy bed-fellow and set the beggar at thy board? Shall the lion do thy bidding and the wild boar obey thee? Is not he who made misery wiser than thou art? Wherefore I praise thee not for this that thou has done, but I bid thee ride back to the palace and make thy face glad, and put on the ringment that be seemeth a king, and with the crown of gold I will crown thee, and the sceptre of pearl I will place in thy hand. And as for thy dreams think no more of them. The burden of this world is too great for one man to bear, and the world sorrow too heavy for one heart to suffer. Sayest thou in this house? said the young king, and he strode past the bishop and climbed up the steps of the altar and stood before the image of Christ. He stood before the image of Christ, and on his right hand and on his left were the marvelous vessels of gold, the chalice with the yellow wine and the vile with the holy oil. He knelt before the image of Christ, and the great candles burned brightly by the jeweled shrine, and the smoke of the incense curled in thin blue wreaths through the dome. He bowed his head in prayer, and the priests and their stiff copes crept away from the altar, and suddenly a wild tumult came from the street outside, and in entered the nobles with drawn swords and knotting plumes and shields of polished steel. Where is this dreamer of dreams, they cried? Where is this king who is apparelled like a beggar, this boy who brings shame upon our state? Surely we will slay him for he is unworthy to rule over us. And the young king bowed his head again and prayed, and when he had finished his prayer he rose up, and turning round he looked at them sadly. And lo! through the painted windows came the sunlight streaming upon him, and the sunbeams wove round him a tissueed robe that was fairer than the robe that had been fashioned for his pleasure. The dead staff blossomed, and bare lilies that were whiter than pearls. The dry thorn blossomed, and bare roses that were redder than rubies. Whiter than fine pearls were the lilies, and their stems were of bright silver. Redder than the male rubies were the roses, and their leaves were of beaten gold. He stood there in the raiment of a king, and the gates of the jeweled shrine flew open, and from the crystal of the many-raid monstrance shone a marvelous and mystical light. He stood there in a king's raiment, and the glory of God filled the place, and the saints in their carven niches seemed to move. In the fair raiment of a king he stood before them, and the organ peeled out its music, and the trumpeters blew upon their trumpets, and the singing boys sang. And the people fell upon their knees in awe, and the nobles sheathed their swords and did homage, and the bishop's face grew pale, and his hands trembled. A greater than I hath crowned thee, he cried, and he knelt before him. And the young king came down from the high altar, and passed home through the midst of the people. But no man dared look upon his face, for it was like the face of an angel.