... Wasn't Istra
coming back?
She was. She detached herself from the hubbub of invitations
to learn to play Five Hundred and wandered back to the couch,
murmuring: "Was bad Istra good? Am I forgiven? Mouse dear,
I didn't mean to be rude to your friends."
As the bubbles rise through water in a cooking-pot, as the
surface writhes, and then, after the long wait, suddenly the
water is aboil, so was the emotion of Mr. Wrenn now that Istra,
the lordly, had actually done something he suggested.
"Istra--" That was all he could say, but from his eyes had
gone all reserve.
Her glance back was as frank as his--only it had more of the
mother in it; it was like a kindly pat on the head; and she was
the mother as she mused:
"So you _have_ missed me, then?"
"Missed you--"
"Did you think of me after you came here? Oh, I know--I was
forgotten; poor Istra abdicates to the pretty pink-face."
"Oh, Istra, _don't_. I--can't we just go out for a little walk
so--so we can talk?"
"Why, we can talk here.
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