"Oh-h-h-h, _Mister_ Wrenn; Mr. _Wrenn!_" There sat Mrs. Stettinius,
the poet-lady of Olympia's rooms on Great James Street.
"Oh-h-h-h, Mr. Wrenn, you _bad_ man, _do_ come sit down and tell
me all _about_ your _wonderful_ trek with Istra Nash. I _just_ met
_dear_ Istra in the upper hall. Poor dear, she was _so_ crumpled,
but her hair was like a sunset over mountain peaks--you know, as
Yeats says:
"A stormy sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships,
only of course this was her _hair_ and not her _lips_--and she
told me that you had tramped all the _way_ from London. I've
never heard of anything so romantic--or no, I won't say
`romantic'--I _do_ agree with dear Olympia--_isn't_ she a
mag_nificent_ woman--_so_ fearless and progressive--didn't you
_adore_ meeting her?--she is our modern Joan of Arc--such a _noble_
figure--I _do_ agree with her that _romantic_ love is _passe_,
that we have entered the era of glorious companionship that
regards varietism as _exactly_ as romantic as monogamy.
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