Through his friend Rabin, the salesman, Mr. Wrenn got better acquainted with two great men—­Mr. L. J. Glover, the purchasing agent of the Souvenir Company, and John Hensen, the newly engaged head of motto manufacturing.  He “wanted to get onto all the different lines of the business so’s he could step right in anywhere”; and from these men he learned the valuable secrets of business wherewith the marts of trade build up prosperity for all of us:  how to seat a selling agent facing the light, so you can see his face better than he can see yours.  How much ahead of time to telephone the motto-printer that “we’ve simply got to have proof this afternoon; what’s the matter with you, down there?  Don’t you want our business any more?” He also learned something of the various kinds of cardboard and ink-well glass, though these, of course, were merely matters of knowledge, not of brilliant business tactics, and far less important than what Tom Poppins and Rabin called “handing out a snappy line of talk.”

“Say, you’re getting quite chummy lately—­reg’lar society leader,” Rabin informed him.

Mr. Wrenn’s answer was in itself a proof of the soundness of Rabin’s observation: 

“Sure—­I’m going to borrow some money from you fellows.  Got to make an impression, see?”

A few hours after this commendation came Istra’s second letter: 

Mouse dear, I’m so glad to hear about the simpatico boarding-house.  Yes indeed I would like to hear about the people in it.  And you are reading history?  That’s good.  I’m getting sick of Paris and some day I’m going to stop an absinthe on the boulevard and slap its face to show I’m a sturdy moving-picture Western Amurrican and then leap to saddle and pursue the bandit.  I’m working like the devil but what’s the use.  That is I mean unless one is doing the job well, as I’m glad you are.  My Dear, keep it up.  You know I want you to be real whatever you are.  I didn’t mean to preach but you know I hate people who aren’t real—­that’s why I haven’t much of a flair for myself.
                         Au recrire,
                                                  I. N.

After he had read her letter for the third time he was horribly shocked and regarded himself as a traitor, because he found that he was only pretending to be enjoyably excited over it....  It seemed so detached from himself.  “Flair”—­“au recrire.”  Now, what did those mean?  And Istra was always so discontented.  “What ’d she do if she had to be on the job like Nelly?...  Oh, Istra is wonderful.  But—­gee!—­I dunno—­”

And when he who has valorously loved says “But—­gee!—­I dunno—­” love flees in panic.

He walked home thoughtfully.

After dinner he said abruptly to Nelly, “I had a letter from Paris to-day.”

“Honestly?  Who is she?”

“G-g-g-g—­”

“Oh, it’s always a she.”

“Why—­uh—­it is from a girl.  I started to tell you about her one day.  She’s an artist, and once we took a long tramp in the country.  I met her—­she was staying at the same place as I was in London.  But—­oh, gee!  I dunno; she’s so blame literary.  She is a fine person—­Do you think you’d like a girl like that?”