“I look like a damn rabbit,” he scorned, and marched half-way to Istra’s room.  He went back to change his tie to a navy-blue bow which made him appear younger.  He was feeling rather resentful at everything, including Istra, as he finally knocked and heard her “Yes?  Come in.”

There was in her room a wonderful being lolling in a wing-chair, one leg over the chair-arm; a young young man, with broken brown teeth, always seen in his perpetual grin, but a godlike Grecian nose, a high forehead, and bristly yellow hair.  The being wore large round tortoise-shell spectacles, a soft shirt with a gold-plated collar-pin, and delicately gray garments.

Istra was curled on the bed in a leaf-green silk kimono with a great gold-mounted medallion pinned at her breast.  Mr. Wrenn tried not to be shocked at the kimono.

She had been frowning as he came in and fingering a long thin green book of verses, but she glowed at Mr. Wrenn as though he were her most familiar friend, murmuring, “Mouse dear, I’m so glad you could come in.”

Mr. Wrenn stood there awkwardly.  He hadn’t expected to find another visitor.  He seemed to have heard her call him “Mouse.”  Yes, but what did Mouse mean?  It wasn’t his name at all.  This was all very confusing.  But how awful glad she was to see him!

“Mouse dear, this is one of our best little indecent poets, Mr. Carson Haggerty.  From America—­California—­too.  Mr. Hag’ty, Mr. Wrenn.”

“Pleased meet you,” said both men in the same tone of annoyance.

Mr. Wrenn implored:  “I—­uh—­I thought you might like to look at these magazines.  Just dropped in to give them to you.”  He was ready to go.

“Thank you—­so good of you. Please sit down.  Carson and I were only fighting—­he’s going pretty soon.  We knew each other at art school in Berkeley.  Now he knows all the toffs in London.”

“Mr. Wrenn,” said the best little poet, “I hope you’ll back up my contention.  Izzy says th—­”

“Carson, I have told you just about enough times that I do not intend to stand for `Izzy’ any more!  I should think that even you would be able to outgrow the standard of wit that obtains in first-year art class at Berkeley.”

Mr. Haggerty showed quite all of his ragged teeth in a noisy joyous grin and went on, unperturbed:  “Miss Nash says that the best European thought, personally gathered in the best salons, shows that the Rodin vogue is getting the pickle-eye from all the real yearners.  What is your opinion?”

Mr. Wrenn turned to Istra for protection.  She promptly announced:  “Mr. Wrenn absolutely agrees with me.  By the way, he’s doing a big book on the recrudescence of Kipling, after his slump, and—­”

“Oh, come off, now!  Kipling!  Blatant imperialist, anti-Stirner!” cried Carson Haggerty, kicking out each word with the assistance of his swinging left foot.