“Very little. Oh—D’Annunzio and some Turgenev and a little Tourgenieff…. That last was a joke, you know.”
“Oh yes,” disconcertedly.
“What sorts of plays do you go to, Mr. Wrenn?”
“Moving pictures mostly,” he said, easily, then bitterly wished he hadn’t confessed so low-life a habit.
“Well—tell me, my dear—Oh, I didn’t mean that; artists use it a good deal; it just means ‘old chap.’ You don’t mind my asking such beastly personal questions, do you? I’m interested in people…. And now I must go up and write a letter. I was going over to Olympia’s—she’s one of the Interesting People I spoke of—but you see you have been much more amusing. Good night. You’re lonely in London, aren’t you? We’ll have to go sightseeing some day.”
“Yes, I am lonely!” he exploded. Then, meekly: “Oh, thank you! I sh’d be awful pleased to…. Have you seen the Tower, Miss Nash?”
“No. Never. Have you?”
“No. You see, I thought it ’d be kind of a gloomy thing to see all alone. Is that why you haven’t never been there, too?”
“My dear man, I see I shall have to educate you. Shall I? I’ve been taken in hand by so many people—it would be a pleasure to pass on the implied slur. Shall I?”
“Please do.”