“Of course there’s different sorts of intellectuals, and each cult despises all the others.  Mostly, each cult consists of one person, but sometimes there’s two—­a talker and an audience—­or even three.  For instance, you may be a militant and a vegetarian, but if some one is a militant and has a good figure, why then—­oof!...  That’s what I mean by `Interesting People.’  I loathe them!  So, of course, being one of them, I go from one bunch to another, and, upon my honor, every single time I think that the new bunch is interesting!”

Then she smoked in gloomy silence, while Mr. Wrenn remarked, after some mental labor, “I guess they’re like cattlemen—­the cattle-ier they are, the more romantic they look, and then when you get to know them the chief trouble with them is that they’re cattlemen.”

“Yes, that’s it.  They’re—­why, they’re—­Oh, poor dear, there, there, there!  It sha’n’t have so much intellekchool discussion, shall it!...  I think you’re a very nice person, and I’ll tell you what we’ll do.  We’ll have a small fire, shall we?  In the fireplace.”

“Yes!”

She pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord, and the old-fashioned North Country landlady came—­tall, thin, parchment-faced, musty-looking as though she had been dressed up in Victorian garments in 1880 and left to stand in an unaired parlor ever since.  She glowered silent disapproval at the presence of Mr. Wrenn in Istra’s room, but sent a slavey to make the fire—­“saxpence uxtry.”  Mr. Wrenn felt guilty till the coming of the slavey, a perfect Christmas-story-book slavey, a small and merry lump of soot, who sang out, “Chilly t’-night, ayn’t it?” and made a fire that was soon singing “Chilly t’-night,” like the slavey.

Istra sat on the floor before the fire, Turk-wise, her quick delicate fingers drumming excitedly on her knees.

“Come sit by me.  You, with your sense of the romantic, ought to appreciate sitting by the fire.  You know it’s always done.”

He slumped down by her, clasping his knees and trying to appear the dignified American business man in his country-house.

She smiled at him intimately, and quizzed: 

“Tell me about the last time you sat with a girl by the fire.  Tell poor Istra the dark secret.  Was she the perfect among pink faces?”

“I’ve—­never—­sat—­before—­any—­fireplace—­with —­any—­one!  Except when I was about nine—­one Hallowe’en—­at a party in Parthenon—­little town up York State.”

“Really?  Poor kiddy!”

She reached out her hand and took his.  He was terrifically conscious of the warm smoothness of her fingers playing a soft tattoo on the back of his hand, while she said: 

“But you have been in love?  Drefful in love?”

“I never have.”

“Dear child, you’ve missed so much of the tea and cakes of life, haven’t you?  And you have an interest in life.  Do you know, when I think of the jaded Interesting People I’ve met—­Why do I leave you to be spoiled by some shop-girl in a flowered hat?  She’d drag you to moving-picture shows....  Oh!  You didn’t tell me that you went to moving pictures, did you?”