A perfectly strange person, a heavy old man with horn spectacles and a soft shirt, who had joined the group unbidden, cleared his throat and interrupted: 

“Is it not a strange paradox that in traveling, the most observant of all pursuits, one should have to encounter the eternal bourgeoisie!”

From the Cockney Greek chorus about the unlighted fire: 

“Yes!”

“Everywhere.”

“Uh—­” began Mr. Gutch.  He apparently had something to say.  But the chorus went on: 

“And just as swelteringly monogamic in Port Said as in Brum.”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“Mr. Wr-r-renn,” thrilled Mrs. Stettinius, the lady poet, “didn’t you notice that they were perfectly oblivious of all economic movements; that their observations never post-dated ruins?”

“I guess they wanted to make sure they were admirin’ the right things,” ventured Mr. Wrenn, with secret terror.

“Yes, that’s so,” came so approvingly from the Greek chorus that the personal pupil of Mittyford, Ph.D., made his first epigram: 

“It isn’t so much what you like as what you don’t like that shows if you’re wise.”

“Yes,” they gurgled; and Mr. Wrenn, much pleased with himself, smiled au prince upon his new friends.

Mrs. Stettinius was getting into her stride for a few remarks upon the poetry of industrialism when Mr. Gutch, who had been “Uh—­“ing for some moments, trying to get in his remark, winked with sly rudeness at Miss Saxonby and observed: 

“I fancy romance isn’t quite dead yet, y’ know.  Our friends here seem to have had quite a ro-mantic little journey.”  Then he winked again.

“Say, what do you mean?” demanded Bill Wrenn, hot-eyed, fists clenched, but very quiet.

“Oh, I’m not blaming you and Miss Nash—­quite the reverse!” tittered the Gutch person, wagging his head sagely.

Then Bill Wrenn, with his fist at Mr. Gutch’s nose, spoke his mind: 

“Say, you white-faced unhealthy dirty-minded lump, I ain’t much of a fighter, but I’m going to muss you up so’s you can’t find your ears if you don’t apologize for those insinuations.”

“Oh, Mr. Wrenn—­”

“He didn’t mean—­”

“I didn’t mean—­”

“He was just spoofing—­”

“I was just spoofing—­”

Bill Wrenn, watching the dramatization of himself as hero, was enjoying the drama.  “You apologize, then?”

“Why certainly, Mr. Wrenn.  Let me explain—­”

“Oh, don’t explain,” snortled Miss Saxonby.

“Yes!” from Mr. Bancock Binch, “explanations are so conventional, old chap.”

Do you see them?—­Mr. Wrenn, self-conscious and ready to turn into a blind belligerent Bill Wrenn at the first disrespect; the talkers sitting about and assassinating all the princes and proprieties and, poor things, taking Mr. Wrenn quite seriously because he had uncovered the great truth that the important thing in sight-seeing is not to see sights.  He was most unhappy, Mr. Wrenn was, and wanted to be away from there.  He darted as from a spring when he heard Istra’s voice, from the edge of the group, calling, “Come here a sec’, Billy.”