“I suppose now it’ll go and rain,” said Istra, viciously, at dusk. It was the first time she had spoken for a mile. Then, after another quarter-mile: “Please don’t mind my being silent. I’m sort of stiff, and my feet hurt most unromantically. You won’t mind, will you?” Of course he did mind, and of course he said he didn’t. He artfully skirted the field of conversation by very West Sixteenth Street observations on a town through which they passed, while she merely smiled wearily, and at best remarked “Yes, that’s so,” whether it was so or not. He was reflecting: “Istra’s terrible tired. I ought to take care of her.” He stopped at the wood-pillared entrance of a temperance inn and commanded: “Come! We’ll have something to eat here.” To the astonishment of both of them, she meekly obeyed with “If you wish.” It cannot be truthfully said that Mr. Wrenn proved himself a person of _savoir faire_ in choosing a temperance hotel for their dinner. Istra didn’t seem so much to mind the fact that the table-cloth was coarse and the water-glasses thick, and that everywhere the elbow ran into a superfluity of greasy pepper and salt castors. But when she raised her head wearily to peer around the room she started, glared at Mr. Wrenn, and accused: “Are you by any chance aware of the fact that this place is crowded with tourists? There are two family parties from Davenport or Omaha; I _know_ they are!” “Oh, they ain’t such bad-looking people,” protested Mr. Wrenn…. Just because he had induced her to stop for dinner the poor man thought his masculine superiority had been recognized. “Oh, they’re _terrible!_ Can’t you _see_ it? Oh, you’re _hopeless_.” “Why, that big guy—that big man with the rimless spectacles looks like he might be a good civil engineer, and I think that lady opposite him—” “They’re Americans.” “So’re we!” “I’m not.” “I thought—why—” “Of course I was born there, but—” “Well, just the same, I think they’re nice people.” “Now see here. Must I argue with you? Can I have no peace, tired as I am? Those trippers are speaking of ‘quaint English flavor.’ Can you want anything more than that to damn them? And they’ve been touring by motor—seeing every inn on the road.” “Maybe it’s fun for—” “Now _don’t_ argue with me. I know what I’m talking about. Why do I have to explain everything? They’re hopeless!” Mr. Wrenn felt a good wholesome desire to spank her, but he said, most politely: “You’re awful tired. Don’t you want to stay here tonight? Or maybe some other hotel; and I’ll stay here.” “No. Don’t want to stay any place. Want to get away from myself,” she said, exactly like a naughty child. So they tramped on again.