Then for a week he awaited a more definite invitation from her, which did not come. He was uneasily polite to Nelly these days, and tremulously appreciative of her gentleness. He wanted to brood, but he did not take to his old habit of long solitary walks. Every afternoon he planned one for the evening; every evening found that he “wanted to be around with folks.” He had a sort of youthful defiant despair, so he jested much at the card-table, by way of practising his new game of keeping people from knowing what he was thinking. He took sophisticated pleasure in noting that Mrs. Arty no longer condescended to him. He managed to imitate Tom’s writing on a card which he left with a bunch of jonquils in Nelly’s room, and nearly persuaded even Tom himself that Tom was the donor. Probably because he didn’t much care what happened he was able to force Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle to raise his salary to twenty-three dollars a week. Mr. Guilfogle went out of his way to admit that the letters to the Southern trade had been “a first-rate stunt, son.” John Henson, the head of the Souvenir Company’s manufacturing department, invited Mr. Wrenn home to dinner, and the account of the cattle-boat was much admired by Mrs. Henson and the three young Hensons. A few days later, in mid-June, there was an unusually cheerful dinner at the boarding-house. Nelly turned to Mr. Wrenn—yes, he was quite sure about it; she was speaking exclusively to him, with a lengthy and most merry account of the manner in which the floor superintendent had “called down” the unkindest of the aislesmen. 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 dickens. Istra was always across the room from him somehow. He found himself glad. It made their parting definite.