But--but--where was I?--I think your gipsying down from London
was _most_ exciting. Now _do_ tell us all about it, Mr. Wrenn.
First, I want you to meet Miss Saxonby and Mr. Gutch and _dear_
Yilyena Dourschetsky and Mr. Howard Bancock Binch--of course you
know his poetry."
And then she drew a breath and flopped back into the
wing-chair's muffling depths.
During all this Mr. Wrenn had stood, frightened and unprotected
and rain-wrinkled, before the gathering by the fireless
fireplace, wondering how Mrs. Stettinius could get her nose so
blue and yet so powdery. Despite her encouragement he gave no
fuller account of the "gipsying" than, "Why--uh--we just
tramped down," till Russian-Jewish Yilyena rolled her ebony eyes
at him and insisted, "Yez, you mus' tale us about it."
Now, Yilyena had a pretty neck, colored like a cigar of mild
flavor, and a trick of smiling. She was accustomed to having
men obey her. Mr. Wrenn stammered:
"Why--uh--we just walked, and we got caught in the rain. Say,
Miss Nash was a wonder.
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