He put off the luxury of opening the letter till after the rites
of brushing his teeth, putting on his slippers, pounding his
rocking-chair cushion into softness. Panting with the joy to
come, he stared out of the window at a giant and glorious figure
of Istra--the laughing Istra of breakfast camp-fire--which
towered from the street below. He sighed joyously and read:
Mouse dear, just a word to let you know I haven't forgotten you
and am very glad indeed to get your letters. Not much to write
about. Frightfully busy with work and fool parties. You _are_
a dear good soul and I hope you'll keep on writing me. In
haste,
I. N.
Longer letter next time.
He came to the end so soon. Istra was gone again.
CHAPTER XIV
HE ENTERS SOCIETY
England, in all its Istra-ness, scarce gave Mr. Wrenn a better
thrill for his collection than the thrill he received on the
November evening when he saw the white doorway of Mrs. R. T.
Ferrard, in a decorous row of houses on Thirtieth Street near
Lexington Avenue.
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