Our Mr. Wrenn: The Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man Part 16

I've seen so much of them. They talk and talk and talk--they're just like Kipling's bandar-log--What is it?

"See us rise in a flung festoon Half-way up to the jealous moon.

Don't you wish you--

could know all about art and economics as we do?' That's what they say. Umph!"

Then she wriggled her fingers in the air like white b.u.t.terflies, shrugged her shoulders elaborately, rose from the rail, and sat down beside him on the steps, quite matter-of-factly.

He gould feel his temple-pulses beat with excitement.

She turned her pale sensitive vivid face slowly toward him.

"When did you see me--to make up the story?"

"Breakfasts. At Mrs. Cattermole's."

"Oh yes.... How is it you aren't out sight-seeing? Or is it blessedly possible that you aren't a tripper--a tourist?"

"Why, I dunno." He hunted uneasily for the right answer.

"Not exactly. I tried a stunt--coming over on a cattle-boat."

"That's good. Much better."

She sat silent while, with enormous and self-betraying pains to avoid detection, he studied her firm thin brilliantly red lips.

At last he tried:

"Please tell me something about London. Some of you English-- Oh, I dunno. I can't get acquainted easily."

"My dear child, I'm not English! I'm quite as American as yourself. I was born in California. I never saw England till two years ago, on my way to Paris. I'm an art student.... That's why my accent is so perishin' English--I can't afford to be just _ordinary_ British, y' know."

Her laugh had an October tang of bitterness in it.

"Well, I'll--say, what do you know about that!" he said, weakly.

"Tell me about yourself--since apparently we're now acquainted.... Unless you want to go to that music-hall?"

"Oh no, no, no! Gee, I was just _crazy_ to have somebody to talk to--somebody nice--I was just about nutty, I was so lonely," all in a burst. He finished, hesitatingly, "I guess the English are kinda hard to get acquainted with."

"Lonely, eh?" she mused, abrupt and bluffly kind as a man, for all her modulating woman's voice. "You don't know any of the people here in the house?"

"No'm. Say, I guess we got rooms next to each other."

"How romantic!" she mocked.

"Wrenn's my name; William Wrenn. I work for--I used to work for the Souvenir and Art Novelty Company. In New York."

"Oh. I see. Novelties? Nice little ash-trays with 'Love from the Erie Station'? And woggly pin-cushions?"

"Yes! And fat pug-dogs with black eyes."

"Oh no-o-o! Please not black! Pale sympathetic blue eyes--nice honest blue eyes!"

"Nope. Black. Awful black.... Say, gee, I ain't talking too nutty, am I?"

"'Nutty'? You mean 'idiotically'? The slang's changed since--Oh yes, of course; you've succeeded in talking quite nice and 'idiotic.'"

"Oh, say, gee, I didn't mean to--When you been so nice and all to me--"

"Don't apologize!" Istra Nash demanded, savagely. "Haven't they taught you that?"

"Yes'm," he mumbled, apologetically.

She sat silent again, apparently not at all satisfied with the architecture of the opposite side of Tavistock Place.

Diffidently he edged into speech:

"Honest, I did think you was English. You came from California?

Oh, say, I wonder if you've ever heard of Dr. Mittyford. He's some kind of school-teacher. I think he teaches in Leland Stamford College."

"Leland Stanford? You know him?" She dropped into interested familiarity.

"I met him at Oxford."

"Really?... My brother was at Stanford. I think I've heard him speak of--Oh yes. He said that Mittyford was a cultural climber, if you know what I mean; rather--oh, how shall I express it?--oh, shall we put it, finicky about things people have just told him to be finicky about."

"Yes!" glowed Mr. Wrenn.

To the luxury of feeling that he knew the unusual Miss Istra Nash he sacrificed Dr. Mittyford, scholarship and eye-gla.s.ses and Sh.e.l.ley and all, without mercy.

"Yes, he was awfully funny. Gee! I didn't care much for him."

"Of course you know he's a great man, however?" Istra was as bland as though she had meant that all along, which left Mr.

Wrenn nowhere at all when it came to deciding what she meant.

Without warning she rose from the steps, flung at him "G' night,"

and was off down the street.

Sitting alone, all excited happiness, Mr. Wrenn muttered: "Ain't she a wonder! Gee! she's striking-lookin'! Gee whittakers!"

Some hours later he said aloud, tossing about in bed: "I wonder if I was too fresh. I hope I wasn't. I ought to be careful."

He was so worried about it that he got up and smoked a cigarette, remembered that he was breaking still another rule by smoking too much, then got angry and snapped defiantly at his suit-case: "Well, what do I care if I _am_ smoking too much?

And I'll be as fresh as I want to." He threw a newspaper at the censorious suit-case and, much relieved, went to bed to dream that he was a rabbit making enormously amusing jests, at which he laughed rollickingly in half-dream, till he realized that he was being awakened by the sound of long sobs from the room of Istra Nash.

Afternoon; Mr. Wrenn in his room. Miss Nash was back from tea, but there was not a sound to be heard from her room, though he listened with mouth open, bent forward in his chair, his hands clutching the wooden seat, his finger-tips rubbing nervously back and forth over the rough under-surface of the wood.

He wanted to help her--the wonderful lady who had been sobbing in the night. He had a plan, in which he really believed, to say to her, "Please let me help you, princess, jus' like I was a knight."