In his white-painted steerage berth¹ Mr. Wrenn lay, with a scratch-pad on his raised knees and a small mean pillow doubled under his head, writing sample follow-up letters to present to the Souvenir and Art Novelty Company, interrupting his work at intervals² to add to a list of the books which, beginning about five minutes after he landed in New York, he was going to master. He puzzled over Marie Corelli. Morton liked Miss Corelli so much; but would her works appeal to Istra Nash?

He had worked for many hours on a letter to Istra in which he avoided mention of such indecent matters as steerages and immigrants. He was grateful, he told her, for “all you learned me,” and he had thought that Aengusmere was a beautiful place, though he now saw “what you meant about them interesting people,” and his New York address would be the Souvenir Company.

He tore up the several pages that repeated that oldest most melancholy³ cry of the lover, which rang among the deodars, from viking ships, from the moonlit courtyards of Provence, the cry which always sounded about Mr. Wrenn as he walked the deck: “I want you so much; I miss you so unendingly; I am so lonely for you, dear.” For no more clearly, no more nobly did the golden Aucassin or lean Dante word that cry in their thoughts than did Mr. William Wrenn, Our Mr. Wrenn.

A third-class steward⁴ with a mangy mustache and setter-like tan eyes came teetering down-stairs, each step like a nervous pencil tap on a table, and peered over the side of Mr. Wrenn’s berth. He loved Mr. Wrenn, who was proven a scholar by the reading of real bound books — an English history and a second-hand⁵ copy of Haunts of Historic English Writers, purchased in Liverpool — and who was willing to listen to the steward’s serial⁶ story of how his woman, Mrs. Wargle, faithlessly consorted⁷ with Foddle, the cat’s-meat man, when the steward was away, and, when he was home, cooked for him lights and liver that unquestionably were purchased from the same cat’s-meat man. He now leered with a fond and

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