He thought of Nelly all evening.  He heard her—­there on the same floor with him—­talking to Miss Proudfoot, who stood at Nelly’s door, three hours after she was supposed to be asleep.

“No,” Nelly was saying with evidently fictitious cheerfulness, “no, it was just a little headache....  It’s much better.  I think I can sleep now.  Thank you very much for coming.”

Nelly hadn’t told Mr. Wrenn that she had a severe headache—­she who had once, a few weeks before, run to him with a cut in her soft small finger, demanding that he bind it up....  He went slowly to bed.

He had lain awake half an hour before his agony so overpowered him that he flung out of bed.  He crouched low by the bed, like a child, his legs curled under him, the wooden sideboard pressing into his chest in one long line of hot pain, while he prayed: 

“O God, O God, forgive me, forgive me, oh, forgive me!  Here I been forgetting Nelly (and I love her) and comparing her with Istra and not appreciating her, and Nelly always so sweet to me and trusting me so—­O God, keep me away from wickedness!”

He huddled there many minutes, praying, the scorching pressure of the bedside growing more painful.  All the while the camp-fire he had shared with Istra was burning within his closed eyes, and Istra was visibly lording it in a London flat filled with clever people, and he was passionately aware that the line of her slim breast was like the lip of a shell; the line of her pallid cheek, defined by her flame-colored hair, something utterly fine, something he could not express.

“Oh,” he groaned, “she is like that poetry stuff in Shakespeare that’s so hard to get....  I’ll be extra nice to Nelly at the picnic Sunday....  Her trusting me so, and then me—­O God, keep me away from wickedness!”

As he was going out Saturday morning he found a note from Istra waiting in the hall on the hat-rack: 

Do you want to play with poor Istra tomorrow Sat. afternoon and perhaps evening, Mouse?  You have Saturday afternoon off, don’t you?  Leave me a note if you can call for me at 1.30. 
                                                      I. N.

He didn’t have Saturday afternoon off, but he said he did in his note, and at one-thirty he appeared at her door in a new spring suit (purchased on Tuesday), a new spring hat, very fuzzy and gay (purchased Saturday noon), and the walking-stick he had bought on Tottenham Court Road, but decently concealed from the boarding-house.

Istra took him to what she called a “futurist play.”  She explained it all to him several times, and she stood him tea and muffins, and recalled Mrs. Cattermole’s establishment with full attention to Mrs. Cattermole’s bulbous but earnest nose.  They dined at the Brevoort, and were back at nine-thirty; for, said Istra, she was “just a bit tired, Mouse.”

They stood at the door of Istra’s room.  Istra said, “You may come in—­just for a minute.”