During all this Mr. Wrenn had stood, frightened and unprotected and rain-wrinkled, before the gathering by the fireless fireplace, wondering how Mrs. Stettinius could get her nose so blue and yet so powdery. Despite her encouragement he gave no fuller account of the “gipsying” than, “Why—uh—we just tramped down,” till Russian-Jewish Yilyena rolled her ebony eyes at him and insisted, “Yez, you mus’ tale us about it.” Now, Yilyena had a pretty neck, colored like a cigar of mild flavor, and a trick of smiling. She was accustomed to having men obey her. Mr. Wrenn stammered: “Why—uh—we just walked, and we got caught in the rain. Say, Miss Nash was a wonder. She never peeped when she got soaked through—she just laughed and beat it like everything. And we saw a lot of quaint English places along the road—got away from all them tourists—trippers—you know.” A perfectly strange person, a heavy old man with horn spectacles and a soft shirt, who had joined the group unbidden, cleared his throat and interrupted: “Is it not a strange paradox that in traveling, the most observant of all pursuits, one should have to encounter the eternal bourgeoisie!” From the Cockney Greek chorus about the unlighted fire: “Yes!” “Everywhere.” “Uh—” began Mr. Gutch. He apparently had something to say. But the chorus went on: “And just as swelteringly monogamic in Port Said as in Brum.” “Yes, that’s so.” “Mr. Wr-r-renn,” thrilled Mrs. Stettinius, the lady poet, “didn’t you notice that they were perfectly oblivious of all economic movements; that their observations never post-dated ruins?” “I guess they wanted to make sure they were admirin’ the right things,” ventured Mr. Wrenn, with secret terror. “Yes, that’s so,” came so approvingly from the Greek chorus that the personal pupil of Mittyford, Ph.D., made his first epigram: “It isn’t so much what you like as what you don’t like that shows if you’re wise.” “Yes,” they gurgled; and Mr. Wrenn, much pleased with himself, smiled _au prince_ upon his new friends. Mrs. Stettinius was getting into her stride for a few remarks upon the poetry of industrialism when Mr. Gutch, who had been “Uh—”ing for some moments, trying to get in his remark, winked with sly rudeness at Miss Saxonby and observed: “I fancy romance isn’t quite dead yet, y’ know. Our friends here seem to have had quite a ro-mantic little journey.” Then he winked again. “Say, what do you mean?” demanded Bill Wrenn, hot-eyed, fists clenched, but very quiet. “Oh, I’m not _blaming_ you and Miss Nash—quite the reverse!” tittered the Gutch person, wagging his head sagely. Then Bill Wrenn, with his fist at Mr. Gutch’s nose, spoke his mind: “Say, you white-faced unhealthy dirty-minded lump, I ain’t much of a fighter, but I’m going to muss you up so’s you can’t find your ears if you don’t apologize for those insinuations.” “Oh, Mr. Wrenn—” “He didn’t mean—” “I didn’t mean—” “He was just spoofing—” “I was just spoofing—”