It cannot be truthfully said that Mr. Wrenn proved himself a person of savoir faire in choosing a temperance hotel for their dinner.  Istra didn’t seem so much to mind the fact that the table-cloth was coarse and the water-glasses thick, and that everywhere the elbow ran into a superfluity of greasy pepper and salt castors.  But when she raised her head wearily to peer around the room she started, glared at Mr. Wrenn, and accused:  “Are you by any chance aware of the fact that this place is crowded with tourists?  There are two family parties from Davenport or Omaha; I know they are!”

“Oh, they ain’t such bad-looking people,” protested Mr. Wrenn....  Just because he had induced her to stop for dinner the poor man thought his masculine superiority had been recognized.

“Oh, they’re terrible! Can’t you see it?  Oh, you’re hopeless.”

“Why, that big guy—­that big man with the rimless spectacles looks like he might be a good civil engineer, and I think that lady opposite him—­”

“They’re Americans.”

“So’re we!”

“I’m not.”

“I thought—­why—­”

“Of course I was born there, but—­”

“Well, just the same, I think they’re nice people.”

“Now see here.  Must I argue with you?  Can I have no peace, tired as I am?  Those trippers are speaking of `quaint English flavor.’  Can you want anything more than that to damn them?  And they’ve been touring by motor—­seeing every inn on the road.”

“Maybe it’s fun for—­”

“Now don’t argue with me.  I know what I’m talking about.  Why do I have to explain everything?  They’re hopeless!”

Mr. Wrenn felt a good wholesome desire to spank her, but he said, most politely:  “You’re awful tired.  Don’t you want to stay here tonight?  Or maybe some other hotel; and I’ll stay here.”

“No.  Don’t want to stay any place.  Want to get away from myself,” she said, exactly like a naughty child.

So they tramped on again.

Darkness was near.  They had plunged into a country which in the night seemed to be a stretch of desolate moorlands.  As they were silently plodding up a hill the rain came.  It came with a roar, a pitiless drenching against which they fought uselessly, soaking them, slapping their faces, blinding their eyes.  He caught her arm and dragged her ahead.  She would be furious with him because it rained, of course, but this was no time to think of that; he had to get her to a dry place.

Istra laughed:  “Oh, isn’t this great!  We’re real vagabonds now.”

“Why!  Doesn’t that khaki soak through?  Aren’t you wet?”

“To the skin!” she shouted, gleefully.  “And I don’t care!  We’re doing something.  Poor dear, is it worried?  I’ll race you to the top of the hill.”

The dark bulk of a building struck their sight at the top, and they ran to it.  Just now Mr. Wrenn was ready to devour alive any irate householder who might try to turn them out.  He found the building to be a ruined stable—­the door off the hinges, the desolate thatch falling in.  He struck a match and, holding it up, standing straight, the master, all unconscious for once in his deprecating life of the Wrennishness of Mr. Wrenn, he discovered that the thatch above the horse-manger was fairly waterproof.