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"Suppose Istra wanted to make up, and came back to London?" was a terrifying thought that hounded him. He dashed into the waiting-room and wrote to her, on a souvenir post-card showing the Abbey: "Called back to America will write. Address care of Souvenir Company, Twenty-eighth Street." But he didn't mail the card.

The realization that Istra was in the room made him forget most of his melds at pinochle; and when Miss Proudfoot inquired his opinion as to whether the coming picnic should be held on Staten island or the Palisades he said, vaguely, "Yes, I guess that would be better." For he was wanting to sit down beside Istra Nash, just be near her; he had to be!

And, at home, Istra was out. He went resolutely down and found Nelly alone, sitting on a round pale-yellow straw mat on the steps. He sat by her. He was very quiet; not at all the jovial young man of the picnic properly following the boarding-house-district rule that males should be jocular and show their appreciation of the ladies by "kidding them."

In her room Istra Nash inspected her nose in a mirror, powdered, and sat down to write, on thick creamy paper: Skilly dear, I'm in a fierce Bloomsbury boarding-house bores except for a Phe-nomenon little man of 35 or 40 with embryonic imagination & a virgin soul. I'll try to keep from planting radical thoughts in the virgin soul, but I'm tempted. Oh Skilly dear I'm lonely as the devil.

The boy came back muttering, "Miss Nash left this note for you, sir, the stewardess says." Mr. Wrenn opened the green-and-white Caravanserai letter excitedly. Perhaps Istra, too, was dressing for the party! He loved all s'prises just then.

This by way of remarking on the fact that the female poet was staring volubly. "G-g-g-g-g-g " said Mrs. Stettinius, which seemed to imply perfect consent. Istra took him to the belvedere on a little slope overlooking the lawns of Aengusmere, scattered with low bungalows and rose-gardens. "It is beautiful, isn't it?

They tramped on, a bit wearily. Mr. Wrenn was beginning to wonder if they'd better go back to Chelmsford. Mist was dripping and blind and silent about them, weaving its heavy gray with the night. Suddenly Istra caught his arm at the gate to a farm-yard, and cried, "Look!" "Gee!... Gee! we're in England. We're abroad!" "Yes abroad."

Arty always was penitent when she had been nasty, and though Istra did not at once seem to know that the landlady had been nasty Mrs. Arty invited her up to the parlor for after-dinner so cordially that Istra could but grant "Perhaps I will," and she even went so far as to say, "I think you're all to be envied, having such a happy family." "Yes, that's so," reflected Mrs. Arty. "Yes," added Mr.

She stood at the top of the stairs looking down. He slowly clumped down the wooden treads, boiling with the amazing discoveries that he had said good-by to Istra, that he was not sorry, and that now he could offer to Nelly Croubel everything. Istra suddenly called, "O Mouse, wait just a moment." She darted like a swallow. She threw her arm about his shoulder and kissed his cheek.

He went out and bought dish-towels, soap, washing-powder, and collars of Charley's size, which was an inch larger than his own. He finished sweeping and dusting and washing the dishes all of them. He who had learned to comfort Istra he really enjoyed it.