Istra took him to what she called a "futurist play." She
explained it all to him several times, and she stood him tea and
muffins, and recalled Mrs. Cattermole's establishment with full
attention to Mrs. Cattermole's bulbous but earnest nose. They
dined at the Brevoort, and were back at nine-thirty; for, said
Istra, she was "just a bit tired, Mouse."
They stood at the door of Istra's room. Istra said, "You may
come in--just for a minute."
It was the first time he had even peeped into her room in New
York. The old shyness was on him, and he glanced back.
Nelly was just coming up-stairs, staring at him where he stood
inside the door, her lips apart with amazement.
Ladies distinctly did not entertain in their rooms at Mrs. Arty's.
He wanted to rush out, to explain, to invite her in, to--to--
He stuttered in his thought, and by now Nelly had hastened past,
her face turned from them.
Uneasily he tilted on the front of a cane-seated rocking-chair,
glaring at a pile of books before one of Istra's trunks.
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