"Come. We'll have tiffin, and then I'll send you away, and
to-morrow we'll go see the Tate Gallery."
While Istra was sending the slavey for cakes and a pint of light
wine Mr. Wrenn sat in a chair--just sat in it; he wanted to show
that he could be dignified and not take advantage of Miss Nash's
kindness by slouchin' round. Having read much Kipling, he had
an idea that tiffin was some kind of lunch in the afternoon, but
of course if Miss Nash used the word for evening supper, then he
had been wrong.
Istra whisked the writing-table with the Reseda-green cover over
before the fire, chucked its papers on the bed, and placed a
bunch of roses on one end, moving the small blue vase two inches
to the right, then two inches forward.
The wine she poured into a decanter. Wine was distinctly a
problem to him. He was excited over his sudden rise into a
society where one took wine as a matter of course. Mrs. Zapp
wouldn't take it as a matter of course. He rejoiced that he
wasn't narrow-minded, like Mrs. Zapp.
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