Bill Wrenn, watching the dramatization of himself as hero, was enjoying the drama. “You apologize, then?” “Why certainly, Mr. Wrenn. Let me explain—” “Oh, don’t explain,” snortled Miss Saxonby. “Yes!” from Mr. Bancock Binch, “explanations are _so_ conventional, old chap.” Do you see them?—Mr. Wrenn, self-conscious and ready to turn into a blind belligerent Bill Wrenn at the first disrespect; the talkers sitting about and assassinating all the princes and proprieties and, poor things, taking Mr. Wrenn quite seriously because he had uncovered the great truth that the important thing in sight-seeing is not to see sights. He was most unhappy, Mr. Wrenn was, and wanted to be away from there. He darted as from a spring when he heard Istra’s voice, from the edge of the group, calling, “Come here a sec’, Billy.” She was standing with a chair-back for support, tired but smiling. “I can’t get to sleep yet. Don’t you want me to show you some of the buildings here?” “Oh _yes!_” “If Mrs. Stettinius can spare you!” This by way of remarking on the fact that the female poet was staring volubly. “G-g-g-g-g-g—” said Mrs. Stettinius, which seemed to imply perfect consent. Istra took him to the belvedere on a little slope overlooking the lawns of Aengusmere, scattered with low bungalows and rose-gardens. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? Perhaps one could be happy here—if one could kill all the people except the architect,” she mused. “Oh, it is,” he glowed. Standing there beside her, happiness enveloping them, looking across the marvelous sward, Bill Wrenn was at the climax of his comedy of triumph. Admitted to a world of lawns and bungalows and big studio windows, standing in a belvedere beside Istra Nash as her friend— “Mouse dear,” she said, hesitatingly, “the reason why I wanted to have you come out here, why I couldn’t sleep, I wanted to tell you how ashamed I am for having been peevish, being petulant, last night. I’m so sorry, because you were very patient with me, you were very good to me. I don’t want you to think of me just as a crochety woman who didn’t appreciate you. You are very kind, and when I hear that you’re married to some nice girl I’ll be as happy as can be.” “Oh, Istra,” he cried, grasping her arm, “I don’t want any girl in the world—I mean—oh, I just want to be let go ’round with you when you’ll let me—”