“No, no, dear. You must have seen last night; that’s impossible. Please don’t argue about it now; I’m too tired. I just wanted to tell you I appreciated—And when you get back to America you won’t be any the worse for playing around with poor Istra because she told you about different things from what you’ve played with, about rearing children as individuals and painting in _tempera_ and all those things? And—and I don’t want you to get too fond of me, because we’re—different…. But we have had an adventure, even if it was a little moist.” She paused; then, cheerily: “Well, I’m going to beat it back and try to sleep again. Good-by, Mouse dear. No, don’t come back to the Cara-advanced-serai. Play around and see the animiles. G’-by.” He watched her straight swaying figure swing across the lawn and up the steps of the half-timbered inn. He watched her enter the door before he hastened to the shops which clustered about the railway- station, outside of the poetic preserves of the colony proper. He noticed, as he went, that the men crossing the green were mostly clad in Norfolk jackets and knickers, so he purchased the first pair of unrespectable un-ankle-concealing trousers he had owned since small boyhood, and a jacket of rough serge, with a gaudy buckle on the belt. Also, he actually dared an orange tie! He wanted something for Istra at dinner—“a s’prise,” he whispered under his breath, with fond babying. For the first time in his life he entered a florist’s shop…. Normally, you know, the poor of the city cannot afford flowers till they are dead, and then for but one day…. He came out with a bunch of orchids, and remembered the days when he had envied the people he had seen in florists’ shops actually buying flowers. When he was almost at the Caravanserai he wanted to go back and change the orchids for simpler flowers, roses or carnations, but he got himself not to. The linen and glassware and silver of the Caravanserai were almost as coarse as those of a temperance hotel, for all the raftered ceiling and the etchings in the dining-room. Hunting up the stewardess of the inn, a bustling young woman who was reading Keats energetically at an office-like desk, Mr. Wrenn begged: “I wonder could I get some special cups and plates and stuff for high tea tonight. I got a kind of party—” “How many?” The stewardess issued the words as though he had put a penny in the slot. “Just two. Kind of a birthday party.” Mendacious Mr. Wrenn! “Certainly. Of course there’s a small extra charge. I have a Royal Satsuma tea-service—practically Royal Satsuma, at least—and some special Limoges.” “I think Royal Sats’ma would be nice. And some silverware?” “Surely.” “And could we get some special stuff to eat?” “What would you like?” “Why—” Mendacious Mr. Wrenn! as we have commented. He put his head on one side, rubbed his chin with nice consideration, and condescended, “What would you suggest?”