“Say, I know how you mean. You feel something like what I did in England. You can’t get next to what the folks are thinking, and it makes you sort of lonely.”
“Well, I—”
Just then Tom Poppins rolled jovially up to the couch. He had carried his many and perspiring pounds over to Third Avenue because Miss Proudfoot reflected, “I’ve got a regular sweet tooth to-night.” He stood before Istra and Mr. Wrenn theatrically holding out a bag of chocolate drops in one hand and peanut brittle in the other; and grandiloquently:
“Which shall it be, your Highness? Nobody loves a fat man, so he has to buy candy so’s they’ll let him stick around. Le’s see; you take chocolates, Bill. Name your drink, Miss Nash.” She looked up at him, gravely and politely—too gravely and politely. She didn’t seem to consider him a nice person.
“Neither, thank you,” sharply, as he still stood there. He moved away, hurt, bewildered.
Istra was going on, “I haven’t been here long enough to be lonely yet, but in any case—” when Mr. Wrenn interrupted:
“You’ve hurt Tom’s feelings by not taking any candy; and, gee, he’s awful kind!”
“Have I?” mockingly.
“Yes, you have. And there ain’t any too many kind people in this world.”
“Oh yes, of course you’ re right. I am sorry, really I am.”