It was an evening of frightened confusion. He tottered along Lexington Avenue on a furtive walk. He knew only that he was very fond of Nelly, yet pantingly eager to see Istra. He damned himself—“damned” is literal—every other minute for a cad, a double-faced traitor, and all the other horrifying things a man is likely to declare himself to be for making the discovery that two women may be different and yet equally likable. And every other minute he reveled in an adventurous gladness that he was going to see Istra—actually, incredibly going to see her, just the next day! He returned to find Nelly sitting on the steps of Mrs. Arty’s.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
Both good sound observations, and all they could say for a time, while Mr. Wrenn examined the under side of the iron steps rail minutely.
“Billy—was it something serious, the telegram?”
“No, it was—Miss Nash, the artist I told you about, asked me to meet her at the boat. I suppose she wants me to help her with her baggage and the customs and all them things. She’s just coming from Paris.”
“Oh yes, I see.”
So lacking in jealousy was Nelly that Mr. Wrenn was disappointed, though he didn’t know why. It always hurts to have one’s thunderous tragedies turn out realistic dialogues.
“I wonder if you would like to meet her. She’s awful well educated, but I dunno—maybe she’d strike you as kind of snobbish. But she dresses I don’t think I ever seen anybody so elegant. In dressing, I mean. Course”—hastily—“she’s got money, and so she can afford to. But she’s—oh, awful nice, some ways. I hope you like—I hope she won’t—”
“Oh, I sha’n’t mind if she’s a snob. Of course a lady gets used to that, working in a department store,” she said, chillily; then repented swiftly and begged: “Oh, I didn’t mean to be snippy, Billy. Forgive me! I’m sure Miss Nash will be real nice. Does she live here in New York?”