All the while the
camp-fire he had shared with Istra was burning within his closed
eyes, and Istra was visibly lording it in a London flat filled
with clever people, and he was passionately aware that the line
of her slim breast was like the lip of a shell; the line of her
pallid cheek, defined by her flame-colored hair, something
utterly fine, something he could not express.
"Oh," he groaned, "she is like that poetry stuff in Shakespeare
that's so hard to get.... I'll be extra nice to Nelly at the
picnic Sunday.... Her trusting me so, and then me--O God,
keep me away from wickedness!"
As he was going out Saturday morning he found a note from Istra
waiting in the hall on the hat-rack:
Do you want to play with poor Istra tomorrow Sat. afternoon and
perhaps evening, Mouse? You have Saturday afternoon off, don't
you? Leave me a note if you can call for me at 1.30.
I. N.
He didn't have Saturday afternoon off, but he said he did in his
note, and at one-thirty he appeared at her door in a new spring
suit (purchased on Tuesday), a new spring hat, very fuzzy and
gay (purchased Saturday noon), and the walking-stick he had
bought on Tottenham Court Road, but decently concealed from the
boarding-house.
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