The quick agony in her voice almost set them both weeping. The shared sorrow of separation drew them together for a moment. Then she started off, with short swift steps, and he tagged after. He found little to say. He tried to comment on the river. He remarked that the apartment-houses across in New York were bright in the sunset; that, in fact, the upper windows looked “like there was a fire in there.” Her sole comment was “Yes.” When they rejoined the crowd he was surprised to hear her talking volubly to Miss Proudfoot. He rejoiced that she was “game,” but he did not rejoice long. For a frightened feeling that he had to hurry home and see Istra at once was turning him weak and cold. He didn’t want to see her; she was intruding; but he had to go—go at once; and the agony held him all the way home, while he was mechanically playing the part of stern reformer and agreeing with Tom Poppins that the horrors of the recent Triangle shirt-waist-factory fire showed that “something oughta be done—something sure oughta be.” He trembled on the ferry till Nelly, with a burst of motherly tenderness in her young voice, suddenly asked: “Why, you’re shivering dreadfully! Did you get a chill?” Naturally, he wanted the credit of being known as an invalid, and pitied and nursed, but he reluctantly smiled and said, “Oh no, it ain’t anything at all.” Then Istra called him again, and he fumed over the slowness of their landing. And, at home, Istra was out. He went resolutely down and found Nelly alone, sitting on a round pale-yellow straw mat on the steps. He sat by her. He was very quiet; not at all the jovial young man of the picnic properly following the boarding-house-district rule that males should be jocular and show their appreciation of the ladies by “kidding them.” And he spoke with a quiet graciousness that was almost courtly, with a note of weariness and spiritual experience such as seldom comes into the boarding-houses, to slay joy and bring wisdom and give words shyness. He had, as he sat down, intended to ask her to go with him to a moving-picture show. But inspiration was on him. He merely sat and talked. When Mr. Wrenn returned from the office, two evenings later, he found this note awaiting him: DEAR MOUSE,—Friend has asked me to join her in studio & have beat it. Sorry not see you & say good-by. Come see me sometime—phone before and see if I’m in—Spring xxx—address xx South Washington Sq. In haste, ISTRA. He spent the evening in not going to the studio. Several times he broke away from a pinochle game to rush upstairs and see if the note was as chilly as he remembered. It always was.