“But, anyway, you will let me play with you here in New York as much as I can? Oh, come on, _let’s_ go for a walk—let’s—let’s go to a show.” “I’m awf’ly sorry, but I promised—a man’s going to call for me, and we’re going to a stupid studio party on Bryant Park. 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. But you wouldn’t have Istra disappoint a nice Johnny after he’s bought him a cunnin’ new weskit, would you?… Good night, dear.” She smiled—the mother smile—and was gone with a lively good night to the room in general. Nelly went up to bed early. She was tired, she said. He had no chance for a word with her. He sat on the steps outside alone a long time. Sometimes he yearned for a sight of Istra’s ivory face. Sometimes, with a fierce compassion that longed to take the burden from her, he pictured Nelly working all day in the rushing department store on which the fetid city summer would soon descend. They did have their walk the next night, Istra and Mr. Wrenn, but Istra kept the talk to laughing burlesques of their tramp in England. Somehow—he couldn’t tell exactly why—he couldn’t seem to get in all the remarks he had inside him about how much he had missed her. Wednesday—Thursday—Friday; he saw her only at one dinner, or on the stairs, departing volubly with clever-looking men in evening clothes to taxis waiting before the house. Nelly was very pleasant; just that—pleasant. She pleasantly sat as his partner at Five Hundred, and pleasantly declined to go to the moving pictures with him. She was getting more and more tired, staying till seven at the store, preparing what she called “special stunts” for the summer white sale. Friday evening he saw her soft fresh lips drooping sadly as she toiled up the front steps before dinner. She went to bed at eight, at which time Istra was going out to dinner with a thin, hatchet-faced sarcastic-looking man in a Norfolk jacket and a fluffy black tie. Mr. Wrenn resented the Norfolk jacket. Of course, the kingly men in evening dress would be expected to take Istra away from him, but a Norfolk jacket—He did not call it that. Though he had worn one in the fair village of Aengusmere, it was still to him a “coat with a belt.” He thought of Nelly all evening. He heard her—there on the same floor with him—talking to Miss Proudfoot, who stood at Nelly’s door, three hours after she was supposed to be asleep. “No,” Nelly was saying with evidently fictitious cheerfulness, “no, it was just a little headache…. It’s much better. I think I can sleep now. Thank you very much for coming.” Nelly hadn’t told Mr. Wrenn that she had a severe headache—she who had once, a few weeks before, run to him with a cut in her soft small finger, demanding that he bind it up…. He went slowly to bed.