... I don't know him, but I suppose he's some
tuppeny-ha'p'ny illustrator."
"Or perhaps he has convictions about fried bananas, and dines on
a bean saute. O Aengusmere! Shades of Aengus!"
"Not at all. When they look as gentle as he they always hate
the capitalists as a militant hates a cabinet minister. He
probably dines on the left ear of a South-African millionaire
every evening before exercise at the barricades.... I say, look
over there; there's a real artist going across the green. You
can tell he's a real artist because he's dressed like a navvy
and--"
Mr. Wrenn was walking away, across the common room, quite sure
that every one was eying him with amusement. And it was too
late to change his clothes. It was six already.
He stuck out his jaw, and remembered that he had planned to hide
the "letter from the duke" in Istra's napkin that it might be
the greater surprise. He sat down at their table. He tucked
the letter into the napkin folds. He moved the vase of orchids
nearer the center of the table, and the table nearer the open
window giving on the green.
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