“Why—­uh—­”

“Let’s hustle over and get through the customs as soon as we can.  Where’s N?  Oh, how clever of it, it’s right by M. There’s one of my trunks already.  How are you, Mouse dear?”

But she didn’t seem really to care so very much, and the old bewilderment she always caused was over him.

“It is good to get back after all, and—­Mouse dear, I know you won’t mind finding me a place to live the next few days, will you?” She quite took it for granted.  “We’ll find a place this morning, n’est-ce pas? Not too expensive.  I’ve got just about enough to get back to California.”

Man fashion, he saw with acute clearness the pile of work on his desk, and, man fashion, responded, “No; be glad tuh.”

“How about the place where you’re living?  You spoke about its being so clean and all.”

The thought of Nelly and Istra together frightened him.

“Why, I don’t know as you’d like it so very much.”

“Oh, it’ll be all right for a few days, anyway.  Is there a room vacant.”

He was sulky about it.  He saw much trouble ahead.

“Why, yes, I suppose there is.”

“Mouse dear!” Istra plumped down on a trunk in the confused billows of incoming baggage, customs officials, and indignant passengers that surged about them on the rough floor of the vast dock-house.  She stared up at him with real sorrow in her fine eyes.

“Why, Mouse!  I thought you’d be glad to see me.  I’ve never rowed with you, have I?  I’ve tried not to be temperamental with you.  That’s why I wired you, when there are others I’ve known for years.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to seem grouchy; I didn’t!  I just wondered if you’d like the house.”

He could have knelt in repentance before his goddess, what time she was but a lonely girl in the clatter of New York.  He went on: 

“And we’ve got kind of separated, and I didn’t know—­But I guess I’ll always—­oh—­kind of worship you.”

“It’s all right, Mouse.  It’s—­Here’s the customs men.”

Now Istra Nash knew perfectly that the customs persons were not ready to examine her baggage as yet.  But the discussion was ended, and they seemed to understand each other.

“Gee, there’s a lot of rich Jew ladies coming back this time!” said he.

“Yes.  They had diamonds three times a day,” she assented.

“Gee, this is a big place!”

“Yes.”  So did they testify to fixity of friendship till they reached the house and Istra was welcomed to “that Teddem’s” room as a new guest.

Dinner began with the ceremony due Mrs. Arty.  There was no lack of the sacred old jokes.  Tom Poppins did not fail to bellow “Bring on the dish-water,” nor Miss Mary Proudfoot to cheep demurely “Don’t y’ knaow” in a tone which would have been recognized as fascinatingly English anywhere on the American stage.  Then the talk stopped dead as Istra Nash stood agaze in the doorway—­pale and intolerant, her red hair twisted high on her head, tall and slim and uncorseted in a gray tight-fitting gown.  Every head turned as on a pivot, first to Istra, then to Mr. Wrenn.  He blushed and bowed as if he had been called on for a speech, stumblingly arose, and said:  “Uh—­uh—­uh—­you met Mrs. Ferrard, didn’t you, Istra?  She’ll introduce you to the rest.”