He wanted something for Istra at dinner—­“a s’prise,” he whispered under his breath, with fond babying.  For the first time in his life he entered a florist’s shop....  Normally, you know, the poor of the city cannot afford flowers till they are dead, and then for but one day....  He came out with a bunch of orchids, and remembered the days when he had envied the people he had seen in florists’ shops actually buying flowers.  When he was almost at the Caravanserai he wanted to go back and change the orchids for simpler flowers, roses or carnations, but he got himself not to.

The linen and glassware and silver of the Caravanserai were almost as coarse as those of a temperance hotel, for all the raftered ceiling and the etchings in the dining-room.  Hunting up the stewardess of the inn, a bustling young woman who was reading Keats energetically at an office-like desk, Mr. Wrenn begged:  “I wonder could I get some special cups and plates and stuff for high tea tonight.  I got a kind of party—­”

“How many?” The stewardess issued the words as though he had put a penny in the slot.

“Just two.  Kind of a birthday party.”  Mendacious Mr. Wrenn!

“Certainly.  Of course there’s a small extra charge.  I have a Royal Satsuma tea-service—­practically Royal Satsuma, at least—­and some special Limoges.”

“I think Royal Sats’ma would be nice.  And some silverware?”

“Surely.”

“And could we get some special stuff to eat?”

“What would you like?”

“Why—­”

Mendacious Mr. Wrenn! as we have commented.  He put his head on one side, rubbed his chin with nice consideration, and condescended, “What would you suggest?”

“For a party high tea?  Why, perhaps consomme and omelet Bergerac and a salad and a sweet and cafe diable.  We have a chef who does French eggs rather remarkably.  That would be simple, but—­”

“Yes, that would be very good,” gravely granted the patron of cuisine.  “At six; for two.”

As he walked away he grinned within.  “Gee!  I talked to that omelet Berg’ rac like I’d known it all my life!”

Other s’prises for Istra’s party he sought.  Let’s see; suppose it really were her birthday, wouldn’t she like to have a letter from some important guy? he queried of himself.  He’d write her a make-b’lieve letter from a duke.  Which he did.  Purchasing a stamp, he humped over a desk in the common room and with infinite pains he inked the stamp in imitation of a postmark and addressed the letter to “Lady Istra Nash, Mouse Castle, Suffolk.”

Some one sat down at the desk opposite him, and he jealously carried the task upstairs to his room.  He rang for pen and ink as regally as though he had never sat at the wrong end of a buzzer.  After half an hour of trying to visualize a duke writing a letter he produced this: 

LADY ISTRA NASH,
          Mouse Castle.