She dived after Tom’s retreat and cheerfully addressed him:
“Oh, I do want some of those chocolates. Will you let me change my mind? Please do.”
“Yes ma’am, you sure can!” said broad Tom, all one pleased chuckle, poking out the two bags.
Istra stopped beside the Five-Hundred table to smile in a lordly way down at Mrs. Arty and say, quite humanly:
“I’m so sorry I can’t play a decent game of cards. I’m afraid I’m too stupid to learn. You are very lucky, I think.”
Mr. Wrenn on the couch was horribly agitated…. Wasn’t Istra coming back?
She was. She detached herself from the hubbub of invitations to learn to play Five Hundred and wandered back to the couch, murmuring: “Was bad Istra good? Am I forgiven? Mouse dear, I didn’t mean to be rude to your friends.”
As the bubbles rise through water in a cooking-pot, as the surface writhes, and then, after the long wait, suddenly the water is aboil, so was the emotion of Mr. Wrenn now that Istra, the lordly, had actually done something he suggested.
“Istra—” That was all he could say, but from his eyes had gone all reserve.
Her glance back was as frank as his—only it had more of the mother in it; it was like a kindly pat on the head; and she was the mother as she mused: