Numbers of times he quite gave her up, decided he wanted never to see her again. But after one of the savagest of these renunciations, while he was stamping defiantly down Tottenham Court Road, he saw in a window a walking-stick that he was sure she would like his carrying. And it cost only two-and-six. Hastily, before he changed his mind, he rushed in and slammed down his money. It was a very beautiful stick indeed, and of a modesty to commend itself to Istra, just a plain straight stick with a cap of metal curiously like silver. He was conscious that the whole world was leering at him, demanding “What’re _you_ carrying a cane for?” but he—the misunderstood—was willing to wait for the reward of this martyrdom in Istra’s approval. The third night, as he stood at the window watching two children playing in the dusk, there was a knock. It was Istra. She stood at his door, smart and inconspicuous in a black suit with a small toque that hid the flare of her red hair. “Come,” she said, abruptly. “I want you to take me to Olympia’s—Olympia Johns’ flat. I’ve been reading all the Balzac there is. I want to talk. Can you come?” “Oh, of course—” “Hurry, then!” He seized his small foolishly round hat, and he tucked his new walking-stick under his arm without displaying it too proudly, waiting for her comment. She led the way down-stairs and across the quiet streets and squares of Bloomsbury to Great James Street. She did not even see the stick. She said scarce a word beyond: “I’m sick of Olympia’s bunch—I never want to dine in Soho with an inhibition and a varietistic sex instinct again—_jamais de la vie._ But one has to play with somebody.” Then he was so cheered that he tapped the pavements boldly with his stick and delicately touched her arm as they crossed the street. For she added: “We’ll just run in and see them for a little while, and then you can take me out and buy me a Rhine wine and seltzer…. Poor Mouse, it shall have its play!” Olympia Johns’ residence consisted of four small rooms. When Istra opened the door, after tapping, the living-room was occupied by seven people, all interrupting one another and drinking fourpenny ale; seven people and a fog of cigarette smoke and a tangle of papers and books and hats. A swamp of unwashed dishes appeared on a large table in the room just beyond, divided off from the living-room by a burlap curtain to which were pinned suffrage buttons and medallions. This last he remembered afterward, thinking over the room, for the medals’ glittering points of light relieved his eyes from the intolerable glances of the people as he was hastily introduced to them. He was afraid that he would be dragged into a discussion, and sat looking away from them to the medals, and to the walls, on which were posters, showing mighty fists with hammers and flaming torches, or hog-like men lolling on the chests of workmen, which they seemed to enjoy more than the workmen. By and by he ventured to scan the group.