"
The whole table nodded gravely, "Yes, that's so."
"I'm sure"--Istra smiled at Mrs. Arty--"that it's because a
woman is running things. Now think what cat-and-dog lives you'd
lead if Mr. Wrenn or Mr.--Popple, was it?--were ruling."
They applauded. They felt that she had been humorous. She was
again and publicly invited up to the parlor, and she came,
though she said, rather shortly, that she didn't play Five
Hundred, but only bumblepuppy bridge, a variety of whist which
Mr. Wrenn instantly resolved to learn. She reclined ("reclined"
is perfectly accurate) on the red-leather couch, among the
pillows, and smoked two cigarettes, relapsing into "No?"'s for
conversation.
Mr. Wrenn said to himself, almost spitefully, as she snubbed
Nelly, "Too good for us, is she?" But he couldn't keep away from
her. The realization that Istra was in the room made him forget
most of his melds at pinochle; and when Miss Proudfoot inquired
his opinion as to whether the coming picnic should be held on
Staten island or the Palisades he said, vaguely, "Yes, I guess
that would be better.
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