Our Mr. Wrenn: The Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man Part 50

He longed to give his whole self in his answer, to be in the absolute community of thought that lovers know. But the image of Istra was behind his chair. Istra--he had to see her--now, this evening. He rushed out to the corner drug-store and reached her by telephone.

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.

Wrenn's reactions toward the esthetic, one need give but three of his impressions of the studio and people he found on Washington Square--namely:

(a) That the big room was bare, ill kept, and not comparable to the red-plush splendor of Mrs. Arty's, for all its pretension to superiority. 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!

(b) That the people were brothers-in-talk to the inmates of the flat on Great James Street, London, only far less, and friendly.

(c) That Mr. 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 d.i.c.kens.

Istra was always across the room from him somehow. He found himself glad. It made their parting definite.

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? I heard him talking Single Tax--or was it Matisse?--and he's usually rude when he talks about them."

"No. He was all right."

"Then what _is_ worrying you?"

"Oh--nothing. Good ni--"

"You _are_ going off angry. _Aren't_ you?"

"No, but--oh, there ain't any use of our--of me being-- _Is_ there?"

"N-no--"

"Matisse--the guy you just spoke about--and these artists here tonight in bobtail dress-suits--I wouldn't know when to wear one of them things, and when a swallow-tail--if I had one, even--or when a Prince Albert or--"

"Oh, not a Prince Albert, Mouse dear. Say, a frock-coat."

"Sure. That's what I mean. It's like that Matisse guy. I don't know about none of the things you're interested in. While you've been away from Mrs. Arty's--Lord, I've missed you so! But when I try to train with your bunch, or when you spring Matisse"

(he seemed peculiarly to resent the unfortunate French artist) "on me I sort of get onto myself--and now it ain't like it was in England; I've got a bunch of my own I can chase around with.

Anyway, I got onto myself tonight. I s'pose it's partly because I been thinking you didn't care much for _my_ friends."

"But, Mouse dear, all this isn't news to me. Surely you, who've gipsied with me, aren't going to be so obvious, so ba.n.a.l, as to blame _me_ because you've cared for me, are you, child?"

"Oh no, no, no! I didn't mean to do that. I just wanted--oh, gee! I dunno--well, I wanted to have things between us definite."

"I do understand. You're quite right. And now we're just friends, aren't we?"

"Yes."

"Then good-by. And sometime when I'm back in New York--I'm going to California in a few days--I think I'll be able to get back here--I certainly hope so--though of course I'll have to keep house for friend father for a while, and maybe I'll marry myself with a local magnate in desperation--but, as I was saying, dear, when I get back here we'll have a good dinner, _nicht wahr?_"

"Yes, and--good-by."

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. Instantly she was running up-stairs again, and had disappeared into the studio.

Mr. William Wrenn was walking rapidly up Riverside Drive, thinking about his letters to the Southern merchants.

While he was leaving the studio building he had perfectly seen himself as one who was about to go through a tumultuous agony, after which he would be free of all the desire for Istra and ready to serve Nelly sincerely and humbly.

But he found that the agony was all over. Even to save his dignity as one who was being dramatic, he couldn't keep his thoughts on Istra.

Every time he thought of Nelly his heart was warm and he chuckled softly. Several times out of nothing came pictures of the supercilious persons whom he had heard solving the problems of the world at the studio on Washington Square, and he muttered: "Oh, hope they choke. Istra's all right, though; she learnt me an awful lot. But--gee! I'm glad she ain't in the same house; I suppose I'd ag'nize round if she was."

Suddenly, at no particular street corner on Riverside Drive, just _a_ street, he fled over to Broadway and the Subway. He had to be under the same roof with Nelly. If it were only possible to see her that night! But it was midnight. However, he formulated a plan. The next morning he would leave the office, find her at her department store, and make her go out to Manhattan Beach with him for dinner that night.

He was home. He went happily up the stairs. He would dream of Nelly, and--

Nelly's door opened, and she peered out, drawing her _peignoir_ about her.

"Oh," she said, softly, "is it you?"

"Yes. My, you're up late."

"Do you--Are you all right?"

He dashed down the hall and stood shyly scratching at the straw of his newest hat.

"Why yes, Nelly, course. Poor--Oh, don't tell me you have a headache again?"

"No--I was awful foolish, of course, but I saw you when you went out this evening, and you looked so savage, and you didn't look very well."

"But now it's all right."

"Then good night."

"Oh no--listen--please do! I went over to the place Miss Nash is living at, because I was pretty sure that I ain't hipped on her--sort of hypnotized by her--any more. And I found I ain't!

_I ain't!_ I don't know what to say, I want to--I want you to know that from going to try and see if I can't get you to care for me." He was dreadfully earnest, and rather quiet, with the dignity of the man who has found himself. "I'm scared," he went on, "about saying this, because maybe you'll think I've got an idea I'm kind of a little tin G.o.d, and all I've got to do is to say which girl I'll want and she'll come a-running, but it isn't that; _it isn't_. It's just that I want you to know I'm going to give _all_ of me to you now if I can get you to want me. And I _am_ glad I knew Istra--she learnt me a lot about books and all, so I have more to me, or maybe will have, for you. It's --Nelly--promise you'll be--my friend--promise--If you knew how I rushed back here tonight to see you!"

"Billy--"

She held out her hand, and he grasped it as though it were the sacred symbol of his dreams.