At six-fifteen he summoned a boy and sent him up with a message that Mr. Wrenn was waiting and high tea ready.

The boy came back muttering, “Miss Nash left this note for you, sir, the stewardess says.”

Mr. Wrenn opened the green-and-white Caravanserai letter excitedly.  Perhaps Istra, too, was dressing for the party!  He loved all s’prises just then.  He read: 

Mouse dear, I’m sorrier than I can tell you, but you know I warrned you that bad Istra was a creature of moods, and just now my mood orders me to beat it for Paris, which I’m doing, on the 5.17 train.  I won’t say good-by—­I hate good-bys, they’re so stupid, don’t you think?  Write me some time, better make it care Amer.  Express Co., Paris, because I don’t know yet just where I’ll be.  And please don’t look me up in Paris, because it’s always better to end up an affair without explanations, don’t you think?  You have been wonderfully kind to me, and I’ll send you some good thought-forms, shall I? 
                                                  I. N.

He walked to the office of the Caravanserai, blindly, quietly.  He paid his bill, and found that he had only fifty dollars left.  He could not get himself to eat the waiting high tea.  There was a seven-fourteen train for London.  He took it.  Meantime he wrote out a cable to his New York bank for a hundred and fifty dollars.  To keep from thinking in the train he talked gravely and gently to an old man about the brave days of England, when men threw quoits.  He kept thinking over and over, to the tune set by the rattling of the train trucks:  “Friends...  I got to make friends, now I know what they are....  Funny some guys don’t make friends.  Mustn’t forget.  Got to make lots of ’em in New York.  Learn how to make ’em.”

He arrived at his room on Tavistock Place about eleven, and tried to think for the rest of the night of how deeply he was missing Morton of the cattle-boat now that—­now that he had no friend in all the hostile world.

In a London A. B. C. restaurant Mr. Wrenn was talking to an American who had a clipped mustache, brisk manners, a Knight-of-Pythias pin, and a mind for duck-shooting, hardware-selling, and cigars.

“No more England for mine,” the American snapped, good-humoredly.  “I’m going to get out of this foggy hole and get back to God’s country just as soon as I can.  I want to find out what’s doing at the store, and I want to sit down to a plate of flapjacks.  I’m good and plenty sick of tea and marmalade.  Why, I wouldn’t take this fool country for a gift.  No, sir!  Me for God’s country—­Sleepy Eye, Brown County, Minnesota.  You bet!”

“You don’t like England much, then?” Mr. Wrenn carefully reasoned.

“Like it?  Like this damp crowded hole, where they can’t talk English, and have a fool coinage—­Say, that’s a great system, that metric system they’ve got over in France, but here—­why, they don’t know whether Kansas City is in Kansas or Missouri or both.... `Right as rain’—­that’s what a fellow said to me for `all right’!  Ever hear such nonsense?....  And tea for breakfast!  Not for me!  No, sir!  I’m going to take the first steamer!”