Our Mr. Wrenn The Romantic Adventures of a Gentle Man

and two stodgy people who were just people and defied you (Istra cheer

they knew what idiocy we

uccess, to make himself believe that Mr. William Wrenn, Our Mr. Wrenn, late of the So

hted at Chelmsford and glanced around like strangers. Mr. Wrenn stared back defiantly and marche

to Chelmsford. Mist was dripping and blind and silent about them, weaving its heavy gray

e're in England

-abr

ancient was lit faintly by a lantern hung from a pos

l England. No tourists. It's what I've always wanted-a country that's old. And different.... Thatched hous

will be a grouchy Interesting People!... Listen! There's a sleepy dog barking, a milli

just how

at all, but just a savage from outer darkness, who pretends to understand London and Paris and Munich, and g

been worrying about

r.... But I don't mind getting wet. All I mind is being bored. I'd like to run up this hill with

re Dureon, of Debussy and artichokes, in little laughing se

st of an amazed rustic pottering about the inn yard in a smock. He did not know that to a "thrilling" Mr. Wrenn he-or perhaps it was his smock-was the hero in an English melodrama. Nor, doubtless, did the English crisp bacon and eggs which a sleepy housemaid prepared know that they were theater properti

ou know mighty well, Mouse, that you have a sneaking wis

s that'

e I'm jus

il, but of comrades. They set out from the inn through the

tack was secluded in a clump of willows Istra smiled and sighed: "I'm pretty tired, dear. I'm going to sleep in that straw-stack. I've

he dug down to a dry place for her. He foun

asleep, curled in a pathetically small childish heap, her tired face in repose against the

ed. Surely, too, she'd be very angry wit

ook-religiously carried for six years, bu

f for bxfst be r

the Great, with his curt self-possession, for he was on a mission for Istra, and he cared not for the goggling eyes of all England. What though he was a bunny-faced man with an innocuous mustache? Istra would be awakening hungry. That was why he bullied

but her cheek now lay wistfully on the crook of her thin arm. He looked at the auburn-framed paleness of her face, its lines of thought and ambition, unmasked, u

ad and made the tea, with cream ready in a jar. He remembered boyhood camping days in

p, her hair about her shoulders. She smiled and called down:

u? Gee, I ho

y life. I'm so sle

eep outdoors, and i

r breakfast! Where's

akfast a

re a

f their intimacy into some hinterland of analysis-when she looked at him as he drank his tea aloud out of the stew-pan, and wondered: "Is this really you here with me? But you aren't a boulevardier. I

u remember when I was baseball captain

operly, and they were

she had spoken for a mile. Then, after another quarter-mile: "Please don't mind my being

ind, and of course

the field of conve

servations on a tow

rely smiled wearily,

o," whether it

the wood-pillared entrance of a temperance inn and commanded: "Come! We'll have somethin

h was coarse and the water-glasses thick, and that everywhere the elbow ran into a superfluity of greasy pepper and salt castors. But when she raised her head wearily to peer around the room she

.... Just because he had induced her to stop for dinner the p

e! Can't you see it?

s spectacles looks like he might be a good civi

re Ame

're

m n

ought

I was born

ame, I think they

rippers are speaking of `quaint English flavor.' Can you want anything more than

it's fu

ith me. I know wha

xplain everything?

id, most politely: "You're awful tired. Don't you want to stay

Want to get away from myself," she

tramped

rain came. It came with a roar, a pitiless drenching against which they fought uselessly, soaking them, slapping their faces, blinding their eyes. He caught he

sn't this great! We'r

khaki soak throug

n't care! We're doing something. Poor dear, is i

them out. He found the building to be a ruined stable-the door off the hinges, the desolate thatch falling in. He struck a match and, holding it up, standing straight,

edge of the manger

e for a murder," she grinned,

nning. He was sure abo

se? Don't you want to murder me?

uch. I guess we can get al

l. You're so used to me now that you

, but I ain't got time now. Sitting on a manger! Ain't this the funniest place!...

the darknesses and w

over, anyway. Really

it's rat

ghed as she stroked her wet shoulder and held his hand, sitting quietly a

and their dangling position wa

mfortable!"

I'd better go see if I can't fin

to go any place. To

ke a fire here. Ther

atch fire," she b

her. "Oh, let the d

make a fire

nd of discomfort, that's all. Why couldn't you

ilderment. "I did try to get you to stay

e. Don't you realize that I too

U

t it. I can't stand a

r on the stable floor and kindled a fire, while she sat sullenly glaring at him, her face wrinkled and tired in the wan firelight. When the blaze was going steadil

nd stood in front of him, looking into

is cheek, then slipped down on the outspread coat, and m

ing, through an hour of pain and happiness and confused meditation, studying the curious background-the dark roof of broken thatch, the age-corroded walls, the littered earthen floor. His hand pressed lightly the clammy smoothness of the wet khaki of her shoulder; his wet sleeve stuck to his arm, and he wante

t, faced the fire. He built up the fire again, and sat brooding beside her, dozing and starting awake, till morning

t was very good of you. You've been a most commendable person.... But I think we'll take

s we'd

r and tired face. Then he could have wept, so deeply did he desire to pull her head down on his shoulder and smooth the wrinkles of weariness out

and rather cross, they arrived at the esthetic but