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Updated: May 20, 2025
Why, a lot of the pictures weren't framed! And you should have seen the giltness and fruit-borderness of the frames at Mrs. Arty's! Wrenn was now a man of friends, and if the "blooming Bohemians," as he called them, didn't like him they were permitted to go to the dickens. Istra was always across the room from him somehow. He found himself glad. It made their parting definite.
He bought a dollar fountain-pen, which had large gold-like bands and a rather scratchy pen-point, and a box of fairly large sheets of paper. Pressing his literary impedimenta tenderly under his arm, he attended four moving-picture and vaudeville theaters. By eleven he had seen three more one-act plays and a dramatic playlet. He slipped by the parlor door at Mrs. Arty's. His room was quiet.
Yes-s, admitted Istra, a little grudgingly, she was going to be at the studio that evening, though she well, there was going to be a little party some friends but yes, she'd be glad to have him come. Grimly, Mr. Wrenn set out for Washington Square. Since this scientific treatise has so exhaustively examined Mr. Arty's, for all its pretension to superiority.
He appeared to be very well satisfied, and broke into a broad smile as he looked up at them all. Geisner and Ned found themselves side by side near the piano, over the keys of which Geisner softly ran his fingers with loving touch. "You are in luck to-night," he remarked to Ned. "You know Arty's signature, of course. He writes as ," mentioning a well-known name. "Of course I know.
Nelly and Miss Proudfoot and Tom Poppins began discussing shoe-stores, all at once and very rapidly, while hot and uncomfortable Mr. Wrenn tried to think of something to say.... Good Lord, suppose Istra "queered" him at Mrs. Arty's!... Then he was angry at himself and all of them for not appreciating her. How exquisite she looked, with her tired white face!
He arose a victor. There was no uneasiness, but rather all the social polish of Mrs. Arty's at its best, in his manner, as he crossed to Mrs. Ebbitt's chair and asked: "How is Mr. Ebbitt to-night? Pretty rheumatic?" Miss Proudfoot offered him a lime tablet, and he accepted it judicially. "I believe these tablets are just about as good as Park & Tilford's," he said, cocking his head.
And every other minute he reveled in an adventurous gladness that he was going to see Istra actually, incredibly going to see her, just the next day! He returned to find Nelly sitting on the steps of Mrs. Arty's. "Hello." "Hello." Both good sound observations, and all they could say for a time, while Mr. Wrenn examined the under side of the iron steps rail minutely.
On January 10th the manuscript of "The Millionaire's Daughter" was returned by play-brokers Wendelbaum & Schirtz with this letter: DEAR SIR, We regret to say that we do not find play available. We inclose our reader's report on the same. Also inclose bill for ten dollars for reading-fee, which kindly remit at early convenience. He stood in the hall at Mrs. Arty's just before dinner.
Nelly: Father, I have something to tell you; something Breakfast at Mrs. Arty's was always an inspiration. In contrast to the lonely dingy meal at the Hustler Dairy Lunch of his Zapp days, he sat next to a trimly shirtwaisted Nelly, fresh and enthusiastic after nine hours' sleep. So much for ordinary days. But Sunday morning that was paradise!
Next morning in the office he made numerous plans of the setting on waste half-sheets of paper. At noon he was telephoning at Tom regarding the question of whether there ought to be one desk or two on the stage. He skipped the evening meal at Mrs. Arty's, dining with literary pensiveness at the Armenian, for he had subtle problems to meditate.
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