"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."

"You go to blazes," was the Youngster's response, and he added: "No
war stories. Draw that line."

"Then," laughed the Doctor, "let's make it tales of our own, our
native land." And there the matter rested. Only, when we separated
that night, each of us carried a sealed envelope containing a
numbered slip, which decided the question of precedence, and it was
agreed that no one but the story-teller should know who was to be the
evening's entertainer, until story-telling hour arrived with the
coffee and cigarettes.