“And the beautiful lack of development of his legs! It’s like the good old cycling days, when every draper’s assistant went bank-holidaying…. I don’t know him, but I suppose he’s some tuppeny-ha’p’ny illustrator.” “Or perhaps he has convictions about fried bananas, and dines on a bean saute. O Aengusmere! Shades of Aengus!” “Not at all. When they look as gentle as he they always hate the capitalists as a militant hates a cabinet minister. He probably dines on the left ear of a South-African millionaire every evening before exercise at the barricades…. I say, look over there; there’s a real artist going across the green. You can tell he’s a real artist because he’s dressed like a navvy and—” Mr. Wrenn was walking away, across the common room, quite sure that every one was eying him with amusement. And it was too late to change his clothes. It was six already. He stuck out his jaw, and remembered that he had planned to hide the “letter from the duke” in Istra’s napkin that it might be the greater surprise. He sat down at their table. He tucked the letter into the napkin folds. He moved the vase of orchids nearer the center of the table, and the table nearer the open window giving on the green. He rebuked himself for not being able to think of something else to change. He forgot his clothes, and was happy. At six-fifteen he summoned a boy and sent him up with a message that Mr. Wrenn was waiting and high tea ready. The boy came back muttering, “Miss Nash left this note for you, sir, the stewardess says.” Mr. Wrenn opened the green-and-white Caravanserai letter excitedly. Perhaps Istra, too, was dressing for the party! He loved all s’prises just then. He read: Mouse dear, I’m sorrier than I can tell you, but you know I warrned you that bad Istra was a creature of moods, and just now my mood orders me to beat it for Paris, which I’m doing, on the 5.17 train. I won’t say good-by—I hate good-bys, they’re so stupid, don’t you think? Write me some time, better make it care Amer. Express Co., Paris, because I don’t know yet just where I’ll be. And please don’t look me up in Paris, because it’s always better to end up an affair without explanations, don’t you think? You have been wonderfully kind to me, and I’ll send you some good thought-forms, shall I? I. N.