“Oh, I sha’n’t mind if she’s a snob. Of course a lady gets used to that, working in a department store,” she said, chillily; then repented swiftly and begged: “Oh, I _didn’t_ mean to be snippy, Billy. Forgive me! I’m sure Miss Nash will be real nice. Does she live here in New York?” “No—in California…. I don’t know how long she’s going to stay here.” “Well—well—hum-m-m. I’m getting _so_ sleepy. I guess I’d better go up to bed. Good night.” Uneasy because he was away from the office, displeased because he had to leave his beloved letters to the Southern trade, angry because he had had difficulty in getting a pass to the wharf, and furious, finally, because he hadn’t slept, Mr. Wrenn nursed all these cumulative emotions attentively and waited for the coming of the _Hesperida_. He was wondering if he’d want to see Istra at all. He couldn’t remember just how she looked. Would he like her? The great steamer swung side-to and was coaxed alongside the wharf. Peering out between rows of crowding shoulders, Mr. Wrenn coldly inspected the passengers lining the decks. Istra was not in sight. Then he knew that he was wildly agitated about her. Suppose something had happened to her! The smallish man who had been edging into the crowd so politely suddenly dashed to the group forming at the gang-plank and pushed his way rudely into the front rank. His elbow dug into the proper waistcoat of a proper plump old gentleman, but he didn’t know it. He stood grasping the rope rail of the plank, gazing goggle-eyed while the plank was lifted to the steamer’s deck and the long line of smiling and waving passengers disembarked. Then he saw her—tall, graceful, nonchalant, uninterested, in a smart check suit with a lively hat of black straw, carrying a new Gladstone bag. He stared at her. “Gee!” he gasped. “I’m crazy about her. I am, all right.” She saw him, and their smiles of welcome made them one. She came from the plank and hastily kissed him. “Really here!” she laughed. “Well, well, well, well! I’m so glad to see you!” “Glad to see you, Mouse dear.” “Have good tr—” “Don’t ask me about it! There was a married man _sans_ wife who persecuted me all the way over. I’m glad _you_ aren’t going to fall in love with me.” “Why—uh—” “Let’s hustle over and get through the customs as soon as we can. Where’s N? Oh, how clever of it, it’s right by M. There’s one of my trunks already. How are you, Mouse dear?” But she didn’t seem really to care so very much, and the old bewilderment she always caused was over him. “It is good to get back after all, and—Mouse dear, I know you won’t mind finding me a place to live the next few days, will you?” She quite took it for granted. “We’ll find a place this morning, _n’est-ce pas?_ Not too expensive. I’ve got just about enough to get back to California.” Man fashion, he saw with acute clearness the pile of work on his desk, and, man fashion, responded, “No; be glad tuh.”