“Oh, Mr. Wrenn—”
“He didn’t mean—”
“I didn’t mean—”
“He was just spoofing—”
“I was just spoofing—”
Bill Wrenn, watching the dramatization of himself as hero, was enjoying the drama. “You apologize, then?”
“Why certainly, Mr. Wrenn. Let me explain—”
“Oh, don’t explain,” snortled Miss Saxonby.
“Yes!” from Mr. Bancock Binch, “explanations are so conventional, old chap.”
Do you see them?—Mr. Wrenn, self-conscious and ready to turn into a blind belligerent Bill Wrenn at the first disrespect; the talkers sitting about and assassinating all the princes and proprieties and, poor things, taking Mr. Wrenn quite seriously because he had uncovered the great truth that the important thing in sight-seeing is not to see sights. He was most unhappy, Mr. Wrenn was, and wanted to be away from there. He darted as from a spring when he heard Istra’s voice, from the edge of the group, calling, “Come here a sec’, Billy.”