And mostly she was right.  Only her rightness was so demanding, so restless, that it left Mr. Wrenn gasping.

Olympia depended on Carson Haggerty for most of the “Yes, that’s so’s,” though he seemed to be trying to steal glances at another woman, a young woman, a lazy smiling pretty girl of twenty, who, Istra told Mr. Wrenn, studied Greek archaeology at the Museum.  No one knew why she studied it.  She seemed peacefully ignorant of everything but her kissable lips, and she adorably poked at things with lazy graceful fingers, and talked the Little Language to Carson Haggerty, at which Olympia shrugged her shoulders and turned to the others.

There were a Mr. and Mrs. Stettinius—­she a poet; he a bleached man, with goatish whiskers and a sanctimonious white neck-cloth, who was Puritanically, ethically, gloomily, religiously atheistic.  Items in the room were a young man who taught in Mr. Jeney’s Select School and an Established Church mission worker from Whitechapel, who loved to be shocked.

It was Mr. Wrenn who was really shocked, however, not by the noise and odor; not by the smoking of the women; not by the demand that “we” tear down the state; no, not by these was Our Mr. Wrenn of the Souvenir Company shocked, but by his own fascinated interest in the frank talk of sex.  He had always had a quite undefined supposition that it was wicked to talk of sex unless one made a joke of it.

Then came the superradicals, to confuse the radicals who confused Mr. Wrenn.

For always there is a greater rebellion; and though you sell your prayer-book to buy Bakunine, and esteem yourself revolutionary to a point of madness, you shall find one who calls you reactionary.  The scorners came in together—­Moe Tchatzsky, the syndicalist and direct actionist, and Jane Schott, the writer of impressionistic prose—­and they sat silently sneering on a couch.

Istra rose, nodded at Mr. Wrenn, and departed, despite Olympia’s hospitable shrieks after them of “Oh stay!  It’s only a little after ten.  Do stay and have something to eat.”

Istra shut the door resolutely.  The hall was dark.  It was gratefully quiet.  She snatched up Mr. Wrenn’s hand and held it to her breast.

“Oh, Mouse dear, I’m so bored!  I want some real things.  They talk and talk in there, and every night they settle all the fate of all the nations, always the same way.  I don’t suppose there’s ever been a bunch that knew more things incorrectly.  You hated them, didn’t you?”

“Why, I don’t think you ought to talk about them so severe,” he implored, as they started down-stairs.  “I don’t mean they’re like you.  They don’t savvy like you do.  I mean it!  But I was awful int’rested in what that Miss Johns said about kids in school getting crushed into a mold.  Gee! that’s so; ain’t it?  Never thought of it before.  And that Mrs. Stettinius talked about Yeats so beautiful.”

“Oh, my dear, you make my task so much harder.  I want you to be different.  Can’t you see your cattle-boat experience is realer than any of the things those half-baked thinkers have done?  I know.  I’m half-baked myself.”