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Updated: September 16, 2025
That he wasn't very much of a cad or anything of a hero is a detail, an accident resulting from his thirty-five or thirty-six years of stodgy environment. Cad or hero, filling scandal columns or histories, he would have been the same William Wrenn. He was thinking of Istra as he lay on his bed.
He was going back to his own people, he was deciding. As he rose with elaborate boarding-house apologies to the room at large for going, and a cheerful but not intimate "Good night" to Istra, she followed him to the door and into the dark long hallway without. "Good night, Mouse dear. I'm glad you got a chance to talk to the Silver Girl. But was Mr. Hargis rude to you?
Bore, isn't it, the day of landing? And poor Istra dreadfully landsick." "Oh, then," hopefully, "don't go. Let's " "I'm sorry, Mouse dear, but I'm afraid I can't break the date.... Fact, I must go up and primp now " "Don't you care a bit?" he said, sulkily. "Why, yes, of course.
He tried to look at Nelly, but something hurt inside him. "Yes," he mumbled. "Quite a long walk." Miss Mary Proudfoot tried again: "is it pleasant to study in Paris? Mrs. Arty said you were an artist." "No." Then they were all silent, and the rest of the dinner Mr. Wrenn alternately discussed Olympia Johns with Istra and picnics with Nelly.
As the bubbles rise through water in a cooking-pot, as the surface writhes, and then, after the long wait, suddenly the water is aboil, so was the emotion of Mr. Wrenn now that Istra, the lordly, had actually done something he suggested. "Istra " That was all he could say, but from his eyes had gone all reserve.
All the while the camp-fire he had shared with Istra was burning within his closed eyes, and Istra was visibly lording it in a London flat filled with clever people, and he was passionately aware that the line of her slim breast was like the lip of a shell; the line of her pallid cheek, defined by her flame-colored hair, something utterly fine, something he could not express.
Once settled in a second-class compartment, with the train in motion, he seemed already much nearer America, and, humming, to the great annoyance of a lady with bangs, he planned his new great work the making of friends; the discovery, some day, if Istra should not relent, of "somebody to go home to."
Rotten is this empire, and shall fall when our soldiers seek flirtation instead of kneeling in prayer like the iron men of Cromwell." Istra.... Card-playing.... Talk of socialism and art. Mr. Wrenn felt very guilty.
The scorners came in together Moe Tchatzsky, the syndicalist and direct actionist, and Jane Schott, the writer of impressionistic prose and they sat silently sneering on a couch. Istra rose, nodded at Mr. Wrenn, and departed, despite Olympia's hospitable shrieks after them of "Oh stay! It's only a little after ten. Do stay and have something to eat." Istra shut the door resolutely.
He went on: "And we've got kind of separated, and I didn't know But I guess I'll always oh kind of worship you." "It's all right, Mouse. It's Here's the customs men." Now Istra Nash knew perfectly that the customs persons were not ready to examine her baggage as yet. But the discussion was ended, and they seemed to understand each other.
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