She was standing with a chair-back for support, tired but smiling.

“I can’t get to sleep yet.  Don’t you want me to show you some of the buildings here?”

“Oh yes!”

“If Mrs. Stettinius can spare you!”

This by way of remarking on the fact that the female poet was staring volubly.

“G-g-g-g-g-g—­” said Mrs. Stettinius, which seemed to imply perfect consent.

Istra took him to the belvedere on a little slope overlooking the lawns of Aengusmere, scattered with low bungalows and rose-gardens.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?  Perhaps one could be happy here—­if one could kill all the people except the architect,” she mused.

“Oh, it is,” he glowed.

Standing there beside her, happiness enveloping them, looking across the marvelous sward, Bill Wrenn was at the climax of his comedy of triumph.  Admitted to a world of lawns and bungalows and big studio windows, standing in a belvedere beside Istra Nash as her friend—­

“Mouse dear,” she said, hesitatingly, “the reason why I wanted to have you come out here, why I couldn’t sleep, I wanted to tell you how ashamed I am for having been peevish, being petulant, last night.  I’m so sorry, because you were very patient with me, you were very good to me.  I don’t want you to think of me just as a crochety woman who didn’t appreciate you.  You are very kind, and when I hear that you’re married to some nice girl I’ll be as happy as can be.”

“Oh, Istra,” he cried, grasping her arm, “I don’t want any girl in the world—­I mean—­oh, I just want to be let go ’round with you when you’ll let me—­”

“No, no, dear.  You must have seen last night; that’s impossible.  Please don’t argue about it now; I’m too tired.  I just wanted to tell you I appreciated—­And when you get back to America you won’t be any the worse for playing around with poor Istra because she told you about different things from what you’ve played with, about rearing children as individuals and painting in tempera and all those things?  And—­and I don’t want you to get too fond of me, because we’re—­different....  But we have had an adventure, even if it was a little moist.”  She paused; then, cheerily:  “Well, I’m going to beat it back and try to sleep again.  Good-by, Mouse dear.  No, don’t come back to the Cara-advanced-serai.  Play around and see the animiles.  G’-by.”

He watched her straight swaying figure swing across the lawn and up the steps of the half-timbered inn.  He watched her enter the door before he hastened to the shops which clustered about the railway-station, outside of the poetic preserves of the colony proper.

He noticed, as he went, that the men crossing the green were mostly clad in Norfolk jackets and knickers, so he purchased the first pair of unrespectable un-ankle-concealing trousers he had owned since small boyhood, and a jacket of rough serge, with a gaudy buckle on the belt.  Also, he actually dared an orange tie!