And in her ears rang the echo of a boy's laughter, golden and
equivocal.
THE STORY OF ST. VESPALUUS
"Tell me a story," said the Baroness, staring out despairingly at
the rain; it was that light, apologetic sort of rain that looks as
if it was going to leave off every minute and goes on for the
greater part of the afternoon.
"What sort of story?" asked Clovis, giving his croquet mallet a
valedictory shove into retirement.
"One just true enough to be interesting and not true enough to be
tiresome," said the Baroness.
Clovis rearranged several cushions to his personal solace and
satisfaction; he knew that the Baroness liked her guests to he
comfortable, and he thought it right to respect her wishes in that
particular.
"Have I ever told you the story of Saint Vespaluus?" he asked.
"You've told me stories about grand-dukes and lion-tamers and
financiers' widows and a postmaster in Herzegovina," said the
Baroness, "and about an Italian jockey and an amateur governess
who went to Warsaw, and several about your mother, but certainly
never anything about a saint."
"This story happened a long while ago," he said, "in those
uncomfortable piebald times when a third of the people were Pagan,
and a third Christian, and the biggest third of all just followed
whichever religion the Court happened to profess.
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