She sat silent again, apparently not at all satisfied with the architecture of the opposite side of Tavistock Place. Diffidently he edged into speech:
“Honest, I did think you was English. You came from California? Oh, say, I wonder if you’ve ever heard of Dr. Mittyford. He’s some kind of school-teacher. I think he teaches in Leland Stamford College.”
“Leland Stanford? You know him?” She dropped into interested familiarity.
“I met him at Oxford.”
“Really?… My brother was at Stanford. I think I’ve heard him speak of—Oh yes. He said that Mittyford was a cultural climber, if you know what I mean; rather—oh, how shall I express it?—oh, shall we put it, finicky about things people have just told him to be finicky about.”
“Yes!” glowed Mr. Wrenn.
To the luxury of feeling that he knew the unusual Miss Istra Nash he sacrificed Dr. Mittyford, scholarship and eye-glasses and Shelley and all, without mercy.
“Yes, he was awfully funny. Gee! I didn’t care much for him.”
“Of course you know he’s a great man, however?” Istra was as bland as though she had meant that all along, which left Mr. Wrenn nowhere at all when it came to deciding what she meant.
Without warning she rose from the steps, flung at him “G’ night,” and was off down the street.