He did not know that he was the toy of forces which, working on
him through the strangeness of passionate womanhood, could have
made him a great cad or a petty hero as easily as they did make
him confusedly sorry for himself. That he wasn't very much of
a cad or anything of a hero is a detail, an accident resulting
from his thirty-five or thirty-six years of stodgy environment.
Cad or hero, filling scandal columns or histories, he would have
been the same William Wrenn.
He was thinking of Istra as he lay on his bed. In a few minutes
he dashed to his bureau and brushed his thinning hair so
nervously that he had to try three times for a straight parting.
While brushing his eyebrows and mustache he solemnly
contemplated himself in the mirror.
"I look like a damn rabbit," he scorned, and marched half-way to
Istra's room. He went back to change his tie to a navy-blue bow
which made him appear younger. He was feeling rather resentful
at everything, including Istra, as he finally knocked and heard
her "Yes? Come in.
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