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 banal, 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.