________________________________________________
_ Mr. Wrenn was sulkily breakfasting at Mrs. Cattermole's Tea
House, which Mrs. Cattermole kept in a genteel fashion in a
basement three doors from his rooming-house on Tavistock Place.
After his night of fear and tragic portents he resented the
general flowered-paper-napkin aspect of Mrs. Cattermole's
establishment. "Hungh!" he grunted, as he jabbed at the fringed
doily under the silly pink-and-white tea-cup on the
green-and-white lacquered tray brought him by a fat waitress in
a frilly apron which must have been made for a Christmas
pantomime fairy who was not fat. "Hurump!" he snorted at the
pictures of lambs and radishes and cathedrals and little duckies
on Mrs. Cattermole's pink-and-white wall.
He wished it were possible--which, of course, it was not--to go
back to the St. Brasten Cocoa House, where he could talk to the
honest flat-footed galumping waitress, and cross his feet under
his chair. For here he was daintily, yes, daintily, studied by
the tea-room habitues--two bouncing and talkative daughters of an
American tourist, a slender pale-haired English girl student of
Assyriology with large top-barred eye-glasses over her
protesting eyes, and a sprinkling of people living along
Tavistock Place, who looked as though they wanted to know if
your opinions on the National Gallery and abstinence were sound.
His disapproval of the lambiness of Mrs. Cattermole's was turned
to a feeling of comradeship with the other patrons as he turned,
with the rest, to stare hostilely at a girl just entering. The
talk in the room halted, startled.
Mr. Wrenn gasped. With his head solemnly revolving, his eyes
followed the young woman about his table to a table opposite.
"A freak! Gee, what red hair!" was his private comment.
A slender girl of twenty-eight or twenty-nine, clad in a
one-piece gown of sage-green, its lines unbroken by either belt
or collar-brooch, fitting her as though it had been pasted on,
and showing the long beautiful sweep of her fragile thighs and
long-curving breast. Her collar, of the material of the dress,
was so high that it touched her delicate jaw, and it was set off
only by a fine silver chain, with a La Valliere of silver and
carved Burmese jade. Her red hair, red as a poinsettia, parted
and drawn severely back, made a sweep about the fair dead-white
skin of her bored sensitive face. Bored blue-gray eyes, with
pathetic crescents of faintly violet-hued wrinkles beneath them,
and a scarce noticeable web of tinier wrinkles at the side.
Thin long cheeks, a delicate nose, and a straight strong mouth
of thin but startlingly red lips.
Such was the new patron of Mrs. Cattermole.
She stared about the tea-room like an officer inspecting raw
recruits, sniffed at the stare of the thin girl student, ordered
breakfast in a low voice, then languidly considered her toast
and marmalade. Once she glanced about the room. Her heavy
brows were drawn close for a second, making a deep-cleft wrinkle
of ennui over her nose, and two little indentations, like the
impressions of a box corner, in her forehead over her brows.
Mr. Wrenn's gaze ran down the line of her bosom again, and he
wondered at her hands, which touched the heavy bread-and-butter
knife as though it were a fine-point pen. Long hands, colored
like ivory; the joint wrinkles etched into her skin; orange
cigarette stains on the second finger; the nails--
He stared at them. To himself he commented, "Gee! I never did
see such freak finger-nails in my life." Instead of such
smoothly rounded nails as Theresa Zapp displayed, the new young
lady had nails narrow and sharp-pointed, the ends like little
triangles of stiff white writing-paper.
As she breakfasted she scanned Mr. Wrenn for a second. He was
too obviously caught staring to be able to drop his eyes. She
studied him all out, with almost as much interest as a policeman
gives to a passing trolley-car, yawned delicately, and forgot him.
Though you should penetrate Greenland or talk anarchism to the
daughter of a millionaire grocer, never shall you feel a more
devouring chill than enveloped Mr. Wrenn as the new young lady
glanced away from him, paid her check, rose slithily from her
table, and departed. She rounded his table; not stalking out of
its way, as Theresa would have done, but bending from the hips.
Thus was it revealed to Mr. Wrenn that--
He was almost too horrified to put it into words.... He had
noticed that there was something kind of funny in regard to her
waist; he had had an impression of remarkably smooth waist
curves and an unjagged sweep of back. Now he saw that--It
was unheard of; not at all like Lee Theresa Zapp or ladies in
the Subway. For--the freak girl wasn't wearing corsets!
When she had passed him he again studied her back, swiftly and
covertly. No, sir. No question about it. It couldn't be
denied by any one now that the girl was a freak, for, charitable
though Our Mr. Wrenn was, he had to admit that there was no sign
of the midback ridge and little rounded knobbinesses of corseted
respectability. And he had a closer view of the texture of her
sage-green crash gown.
"Golly!" he said to himself; "of all the doggone cloth for a
dress! Reg'lar gunny-sacking. She's skinny, too. Bright-red
hair. She sure is the prize freak. Kind of good-looking,
but--get a brick!"
He hated to rule so clever-seeming a woman quite out of court.
But he remembered her scissors glance at him, and his soft
little heart became very hard.
How brittle are our steel resolves! When Mr. Wrenn walked out of
Mrs. Cattermole's excellent establishment and heavily inspected
the quiet Bloomsbury Street, with a cat's-meat-man stolidly
clopping along the pavement, as loneliness rushed on him and he
wondered what in the world he could do, he mused, "Gee! I bet
that red-headed lady would be interestin' to know."
A day of furtive darts out from his room to do London, which
glumly declined to be done. He went back to the Zoological
Gardens and made friends with a tiger which, though it
presumably came from an English colony, was the friendliest
thing he had seen for a week. It did yawn, but it let him talk
to it for a long while. He stood before the bars, peering in,
and whenever no one else was about he murmured: "Poor fella,
they won't let you go, heh? You got a worse boss 'n Goglefogle,
heh? Poor old fella."
He didn't at all mind the disorder and rancid smell of the cage;
he had no fear of the tiger's sleek murderous power. But he was
somewhat afraid of the sound of his own tremorous voice. He had
spoken aloud so little lately.
A man came, an Englishman in a high offensively well-fitting
waistcoat, and stood before the cage. Mr. Wrenn slunk away,
robbed of his new friend, the tiger, the forlornest person in all
London, kicking at pebbles in the path.
As half-dusk made the quiet street even more detached, he sat on
the steps of his rooming-house on Tavistock Place, keeping
himself from the one definite thing he wanted to do--the thing
he keenly imagined a happy Mr. Wrenn doing--dashing over to the
Euston Station to find out how soon and where he could get a
train for Liverpool and a boat for America.
A girl was approaching the house. He viewed her carelessly,
then intently. It was the freak lady of Mrs. Cattermole's Tea
House--the corsetless young woman of the tight-fitting crash gown
and flame-colored hair. She was coming up the steps of his house.
He made room for her with feverish courtesy. She lived in the
same house--He instantly, without a bit of encouragement from
the uninterested way in which she snipped the door to, made up
a whole novel about her. Gee! She was a French countess, who
lived in a reg'lar chateau, and she was staying in Bloomsbury
incognito, seeing the sights. She was a noble. She was--
Above him a window opened. He glanced up. The countess incog.
was leaning out, scanning the street uncaringly. Why--her
windows were next to his! He was living next room to an unusual
person--as unusual as Dr. Mittyford.
He hurried up-stairs with a fervid but vague plan to meet her.
Maybe she really was a French countess or somepun'. All evening,
sitting by the window, he was comforted as he heard her move
about her room. He had a friend. He had started that great
work of making friends--well, not started, but started
starting--then he got confused, but the idea was a flame to warm
the fog-chilled spaces of the London street.
At his Cattermole breakfast he waited long. She did not come.
Another day--but why paint another day that was but a smear of
flat dull slate? Yet another breakfast, and the lady of mystery
came. Before he knew he was doing it he had bowed to her, a
slight uneasy bend of his neck. She peered at him, unseeing,
and sat down with her back to him.
He got much good healthy human vindictive satisfaction in
evicting her violently from the French chateau he had given her,
and remembering that, of course, she was just a "fool freak
Englishwoman--prob'ly a bloomin' stoodent" he scorned, and so
settled _her!_ Also he told her, by telepathy, that her new
gown was freakier than ever--a pale-green thing, with large
white buttons.
As he was coming in that evening he passed her in the hall. She
was clad in what he called a bathrobe, and what she called an
Arabian _burnoose_, of black embroidered with dull-gold
crescents and stars, showing a V of exquisite flesh at her
throat. A shred of tenuous lace straggled loose at the opening
of the _burnoose_. Her radiant hair, tangled over her forehead,
shone with a thousand various gleams from the gas-light over her
head as she moved back against the wall and stood waiting for
him to pass. She smiled very doubtfully, distantly--the smile,
he felt, of a great lady from Mayfair. He bobbed his head,
lowered his eyes abashedly, and noticed that along the shelf of
her forearm, held against her waist, she bore many silver toilet
articles, and such a huge heavy fringed Turkish bath-towel as he
had never seen before.
He lay awake to picture her brilliant throat and shining hair.
He rebuked himself for the lack of dignity in "thinking of that
freak, when she wouldn't even return a fellow's bow." But her
shimmering hair was the star of his dreams.
Napping in his room in the afternoon, Mr. Wrenn heard slight
active sounds from her, next room. He hurried down to the stoop.
She stood behind him on the door-step, glaring up and down the
street, as bored and as ready to spring as the Zoo tiger. Mr.
Wrenn heard himself saying to the girl, "Please, miss, do you
mind telling me--I'm an American; I'm a stranger in London--I
want to go to a good play or something and what would I--what
would be good--"
"I don't know, reahlly," she said, with much hauteur.
"Everything's rather rotten this season, I fancy." Her voice
ran fluting up and down the scale. Her a's were very broad.
"Oh--oh--y-you _are_ English, then?"
"Yes!"
"Why--uh--"
"_Yes!_"
"Oh, I just had a fool idea maybe you might be French."
"Perhaps I am, y' know. I'm not reahlly English," she said, blandly.
"Why--uh--"
"What made you think I was French? Tell me; I'm interested."
"Oh, I guess I was just--well, it was almost make-b'lieve--how
you had a castle in France--just a kind of a fool game."
"Oh, _don't_ be ashamed of imagination," she demanded, stamping
her foot, while her voice fluttered, low and beautifully
controlled, through half a dozen notes. "Tell me the rest of
your story about me."
She was sitting on the rail above him now. As he spoke she
cupped her chin with the palm of her delicate hand and observed
him curiously.
"Oh, nothing much more. You were a countess--"
"Please! Not just `were.' Please, sir, mayn't I be a countess now?"
"Oh yes, of course you are!" he cried, delight submerging
timidity. "And your father was sick with somepun' mysterious,
and all the docs shook their heads and said `Gee! we dunno what
it is,' and so you sneaked down to the treasure-chamber--you
see, your dad--your father, I should say--he was a cranky old
Frenchman--just in the story, you know. He didn't think you
could do anything yourself about him being mysteriously sick.
So one night you--"
"Oh, was it dark? Very _very_ dark? And silent? And my
footsteps rang on the hollow flagstones? And I swiped the gold
and went forth into the night?"
"Yes, _yes!_ That's it."
"But why did I swipe it?"
"I'm just coming to that," he said, sternly.
"Oh, please, sir, I'm awful sorry I interrupted."
"It was like this: You wanted to come over here and study
medicine so's you could cure your father."
"But please, sir," said the girl, with immense gravity, "mayn't
I let him die, and not find out what's ailing him, so I can
marry the _maire?_"
"Nope," firmly, "you got to--Say, _gee!_ I didn't expect to
tell you all this make-b'lieve.... I'm afraid you'll think
it's awful fresh of me."
"Oh, I loved it--really I did--because you liked to make it up
about poor Istra. (My name is Istra Nash.) I'm sorry to say I'm
not reahlly"--her two "reallys" were quite different--"a countess,
you know. Tell me--you live in this same house, don't you?
Please tell me that you're not an interesting Person. Please!"
"I--gee! I guess I don't quite get you."
"Why, stupid, an Interesting Person is a writer or an artist or
an editor or a girl who's been in Holloway Jail or Canongate for
suffraging, or any one else who depends on an accident to be
tolerable."
"No, I'm afraid not; I'm just a kind of clerk."
"Good! Good! My dear sir--whom I've never seen before--have I?
By the way, please don't think I usually pick up stray gentlemen
and talk to them about my pure white soul. But you, you know,
made stories about me.... I was saying: If you could only know
how I loathe and hate and despise Interesting People just now!
I've seen so much of them. They talk and talk and talk--they're
just like Kipling's bandar-log--What is it?
"See us rise in a flung festoon
Half-way up to the jealous moon.
Don't you wish you--
could know all about art and economics as we do?' That's what
they say. Umph!"
Then she wriggled her fingers in the air like white butterflies,
shrugged her shoulders elaborately, rose from the rail, and sat
down beside him on the steps, quite matter-of-factly.
He gould feel his temple-pulses beat with excitement.
She turned her pale sensitive vivid face slowly toward him.
"When did you see me--to make up the story?"
"Breakfasts. At Mrs. Cattermole's."
"Oh yes.... How is it you aren't out sight-seeing? Or is it
blessedly possible that you aren't a tripper--a tourist?"
"Why, I dunno." He hunted uneasily for the right answer.
"Not exactly. I tried a stunt--coming over on a cattle-boat."
"That's good. Much better."
She sat silent while, with enormous and self-betraying pains to
avoid detection, he studied her firm thin brilliantly red lips.
At last he tried:
"Please tell me something about London. Some of you English--
Oh, I dunno. I can't get acquainted easily."
"My dear child, I'm not English! I'm quite as American as
yourself. I was born in California. I never saw England till two
years ago, on my way to Paris. I'm an art student.... That's
why my accent is so perishin' English--I can't afford to be just
_ordinary_ British, y' know."
Her laugh had an October tang of bitterness in it.
"Well, I'll--say, what do you know about that!" he said, weakly.
"Tell me about yourself--since apparently we're now
acquainted.... Unless you want to go to that music-hall?"
"Oh no, no, no! Gee, I was just _crazy_ to have somebody to talk
to--somebody nice--I was just about nutty, I was so lonely," all
in a burst. He finished, hesitatingly, "I guess the English are
kinda hard to get acquainted with."
"Lonely, eh?" she mused, abrupt and bluffly kind as a man, for
all her modulating woman's voice. "You don't know any of the
people here in the house?"
"No'm. Say, I guess we got rooms next to each other."
"How romantic!" she mocked.
"Wrenn's my name; William Wrenn. I work for--I used to work for
the Souvenir and Art Novelty Company. In New York."
"Oh. I see. Novelties? Nice little ash-trays with `Love from
the Erie Station'? And woggly pin-cushions?"
"Yes! And fat pug-dogs with black eyes."
"Oh no-o-o! Please not black! Pale sympathetic blue eyes--nice
honest blue eyes!"
"Nope. Black. Awful black.... Say, gee, I ain't talking too
nutty, am I?"
"`Nutty'? You mean `idiotically'? The slang's changed
since--Oh yes, of course; you've succeeded in talking quite
nice and `idiotic.'"
"Oh, say, gee, I didn't mean to--When you been so nice and
all to me--"
"Don't apologize!" Istra Nash demanded, savagely. "Haven't they
taught you that?"
"Yes'm," he mumbled, apologetically.
She sat silent again, apparently not at all satisfied with the
architecture of the opposite side of Tavistock Place.
Diffidently he edged into speech:
"Honest, I did think you was English. You came from California?
Oh, say, I wonder if you've ever heard of Dr. Mittyford. He's
some kind of school-teacher. I think he teaches in Leland
Stamford College."
"Leland Stanford? You know him?" She dropped into interested
familiarity.
"I met him at Oxford."
"Really?... My brother was at Stanford. I think I've heard him
speak of--Oh yes. He said that Mittyford was a cultural
climber, if you know what I mean; rather--oh, how shall I
express it?--oh, shall we put it, finicky about things people
have just told him to be finicky about."
"Yes!" glowed Mr. Wrenn.
To the luxury of feeling that he knew the unusual Miss Istra
Nash he sacrificed Dr. Mittyford, scholarship and eye-glasses
and Shelley and all, without mercy.
"Yes, he was awfully funny. Gee! I didn't care much for him."
"Of course you know he's a great man, however?" Istra was as
bland as though she had meant that all along, which left Mr.
Wrenn nowhere at all when it came to deciding what she meant.
Without warning she rose from the steps, flung at him "G' night,"
and was off down the street.
Sitting alone, all excited happiness, Mr. Wrenn muttered: "Ain't
she a wonder! Gee! she's striking-lookin'! Gee whittakers!"
Some hours later he said aloud, tossing about in bed: "I wonder
if I was too fresh. I hope I wasn't. I ought to be careful."
He was so worried about it that he got up and smoked a
cigarette, remembered that he was breaking still another rule by
smoking too much, then got angry and snapped defiantly at his
suit-case: "Well, what do I care if I _am_ smoking too much?
And I'll be as fresh as I want to." He threw a newspaper at the
censorious suit-case and, much relieved, went to bed to dream
that he was a rabbit making enormously amusing jests, at which
he laughed rollickingly in half-dream, till he realized that he
was being awakened by the sound of long sobs from the room of
Istra Nash.
Afternoon; Mr. Wrenn in his room. Miss Nash was back from tea,
but there was not a sound to be heard from her room, though he
listened with mouth open, bent forward in his chair, his hands
clutching the wooden seat, his finger-tips rubbing nervously
back and forth over the rough under-surface of the wood.
He wanted to help her--the wonderful lady who had been sobbing
in the night. He had a plan, in which he really believed,
to say to her, "Please let me help you, princess, jus' like I
was a knight."
At last he heard her moving about. He rushed downstairs and
waited on the stoop.
When she came out she glanced down and smiled contentedly.
He was flutteringly sure that she expected to see him there.
But all his plan of proffering assistance vanished as he saw
her impatient eyes and her splendors of dress--another
tight-fitting gown, of smoky gray, with faint silvery lights gliding
along the fabric.
She sat on the rail above him, immediately, unhesitatingly, and
answered his "Evenin'" cheerfully.
He wanted so much to sit beside her, to be friends with her.
But, he felt, it took courage to sit beside her. She was likely
to stare haughtily at him. However, he did go up to the rail
and sit, shyly kicking his feet, beside her, and she did not
stare haughtily. Instead she moved over an inch or two, glanced
at him almost as though they were sharing a secret, and said, quietly:
"I thought quite a bit about you last evening. I believe you
really have an imagination, even though you are a salesman--I
mean so many don't; you know how it is."
"Oh yes."
You see, Mr. Wrenn didn't know he was commonplace.
"After I left here last night I went over to Olympia Johns', and
she dragged me off to a play. I thought of you at it because
there was an imaginative butler in it. You don't mind my
comparing you to a butler, do you? He was really quite the
nicest person in the play, y' know. Most of it was gorgeously
rotten. It used to be a French farce, but they sent it to
Sunday-school and gave it a nice fresh frock. It seemed that a
gentleman-tabby had been trying to make a match between his
nephew and his ward. The ward arted. Personally I think it
was by tonsorial art. But, anyway, the uncle knew that nothing
brings people together so well as hating the same person. You know,
like hating the cousin, when you're a kiddy, hating the cousin
that always keeps her nails clean?"
"Yes! That's _so!_"
"So he turned nasty, and of course the nephew and ward clinched
till death did them part--which, I'm very sorry to have to tell
you, death wasn't decent enough to do on the stage. If the play
could only have ended with everybody's funeral I should have
called it a real happy ending."
Mr. Wrenn laughed gratefully, though uncertainly. He knew that she
had made jokes for him, but he didn't exactly know what they were.
"The imaginative butler, he was rather good. But the rest--Ugh!"
"That must have been a funny play," he said, politely.
She looked at him sidewise and confided, "Will you do me a favor?"
"Oh yes, I--"
"Ever been married?"
He was frightfully startled. His "No" sounded as though he
couldn't quite remember.
She seemed much amused. You wouldn't have believed that this
superior quizzical woman who tapped her fingers carelessly on
her slim exquisite knee had ever sobbed in the night.
"Oh, that wasn't a personal question," she said. "I just wanted
to know what you're like. Don't you ever collect people? I
do--chloroform 'em quite cruelly and pin their poor little
corpses out on nice clean corks.... You live alone in New York,
do you?"
"Y-yes."
"Who do you play with--know?"
"Not--not much of anybody. Except maybe Charley Carpenter.
He's assistant bookkeeper for the Souvenir Company. "He had
wanted to, and immediately decided not to, invent _grandes
mondes_ whereof he was an intimate.
"What do--oh, you know--people in New York who don't go to
parties or read much--what do they do for amusement? I'm so
interested in types."
"Well--" said he.
That was all he could say till he had digested a pair of
thoughts: Just what did she mean by "types"? Had it something
to do with printing stories? And what could he say about the
people, anyway? He observed:
"Oh, I don't know--just talk about--oh, cards and jobs and folks
and things and--oh, you know; go to moving pictures and
vaudeville and go to Coney Island and--oh, sleep."
"But you--?"
"Well, I read a good deal. Quite a little. Shakespeare and
geography and a lot of stuff. I like reading."
"And how do you place Nietzsche?" she gravely desired to know.
"?"
"Nietzsche. You know--the German humorist."
"Oh yes--uh--let me see now; he's--uh--"
"Why, you remember, don't you? Haeckel and he wrote the great
musical comedy of the century. And Matisse did the
music--Matisse and Rodin."
"I haven't been to it," he said, vaguely. "...I don't know
much German. Course I know a few words, like _Spricken Sie
Dutch_ and _Bitty, sir_, that Rabin at the Souvenir Company--he's
a German Jew, I guess--learnt me.... But, say, isn't Kipling
great! Gee! when I read _Kim_ I can imagine I'm hiking along one
of those roads in India just like I was there--you know, all
those magicians and so on.... Readin's wonderful, ain't it!"
"Um. Yes."
"I bet you read an awful lot."
"Very little. Oh--D'Annunzio and some Turgenev and a little
Tourgenieff.... That last was a joke, you know."
"Oh yes," disconcertedly.
"What sorts of plays do you go to, Mr. Wrenn?"
"Moving pictures mostly," he said, easily, then bitterly wished
he hadn't confessed so low-life a habit.
"Well--tell me, my dear--Oh, I didn't mean that; artists use
it a good deal; it just means `old chap.' You _don't_ mind my
asking such beastly personal questions, do you? I'm interested
in people.... And now I must go up and write a letter. I was
going over to Olympia's--she's one of the Interesting People I
spoke of--but you see you have been much more amusing. Good night.
You're lonely in London, aren't you? We'll have to go sightseeing
some day."
"Yes, I am lonely!" he exploded. Then, meekly: "Oh, thank you!
I sh'd be awful pleased to.... Have you seen the Tower, Miss Nash?"
"No. Never. Have you?"
"No. You see, I thought it 'd be kind of a gloomy thing to see
all alone. Is that why you haven't never been there, too?"
"My dear man, I see I shall have to educate you. Shall I? I've
been taken in hand by so many people--it would be a pleasure to
pass on the implied slur. Shall I?"
"Please do."
"One simply doesn't go and see the Tower, because that's what
trippers do. Don't you understand, my dear? (Pardon the `my
dear' again.) The Tower is the sort of thing school
superintendents see and then go back and lecture on in school
assembly-room and the G. A. R. hall. I'll take you to the Tate
Gallery." Then, very abruptly, "G' night," and she was gone.
He stared after her smooth back, thinking: "Gee! I wonder if
she got sore at something I said. I don't think I was fresh
this time. But she beat it so quick.... Them lips of hers--I
never knew there was such red lips. And an artist--paints
pictures!... Read a lot--Nitchy--German musical comedy. Wonder
if that's that `Merry Widow' thing?... That gray dress of hers
makes me think of fog. Cur'ous."
In her room Istra Nash inspected her nose in a mirror, powdered,
and sat down to write, on thick creamy paper:
Skilly dear, I'm in a fierce Bloomsbury boarding-house--bores
--except for a Phe-nomenon--little man of 35 or 40 with
embryonic imagination & a virgin soul. I'll try to keep from
planting radical thoughts in the virgin soul, but I'm tempted.
Oh Skilly dear I'm lonely as the devil. Would it be too bromid.
to say I wish you were here? I put out my hand in the darkness,
& yours wasn't there. My dear, my dear, how desolate--Oh you
understand it only too well with your supercilious grin & your
superior eye-glasses & your beatific Oxonian ignorance of poor
eager America.
I suppose I _am_ just a barbarous Californian kiddy. It's just
as Pere Dureon said at the atelier, "You haf a' onderstanding of
the 'igher immorality, but I 'ope you can cook--paint you cannot."
He wins. I can't sell a single thing to the art editors here or
get one single order. One horrid eye-glassed earnest youth who
Sees People at a magazine, he vouchsafed that they "didn't use
any Outsiders." Outsiders! And his hair was nearly as red as my
wretched mop. So I came home & howled & burned Milan tapers
before your picture. I did. Though you don't deserve it.
Oh damn it, am I getting sentimental? You'll read this at Petit
Monsard over your drip & grin at your poor unnietzschean barbarian.
I. N. _
Read next: CHAPTER VIII HE TIFFINS
Read previous: CHAPTER VI HE IS AN ORPHAN
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