New York has a sliding scale of hours for cocktails. It was still early in the afternoon, although candles were lit in the neighbours’ living-rooms. The soft light of these numerous candles streamed through the windows on to the trees outside; for this row of houses had been remodelled and now faced the river. The branches of the trees leaned towards the windows, and almost brushed the panes, and where they came within the candlelight they were tipped with gold so beckoning as to be unearthly. The river ran at the foot of the garden, separating it from Welfare Island where recalcitrant women saw the error of their ways; and lights began flaring from the windows of the prison, for the sun, if one could have seen it, had moved over the Hudson. There would have been peace except for this suggestion of imprisoned suffering, and quiet except for the radios. The loud speakers of other people’s radios held New York in a deadened thrall. Our small company of necessity raised their voices, and above what we said rolled and bellowed what persons from all America said. Words clacked against our eardrums, songs assailed our taste; and this discordance so persistently knocked against me--as if someone were hitting me--that I wondered for how long a time I could hold out. I wanted to scream. They were saying things--as people on the air were saying things--useless things. Florence said: “The only good thing about him is that he can make no use in his buildings of what I may chance to say in his hearing. I mean--it doesn’t pay to run around town saying absolutely good things; the first you know, you read your good things in other people’s books. That--” she concluded with her smile that directed her barbs to all in the room--“that is the reason authors are so stupid in conversation.” “Meaning--?” suggested Pomeroy with interest. “--That I may be planning a brilliant line on Eva’s husband. He irritates me.” Pomeroy said: “I adore his mother. And let me tell you that men have adored old ladies for less worthy reasons than mine for my passion for Mrs. Van Suydam. She tells me that she’s disappointed in Eva’s books because they haven’t the rich meaty flavour of Moll Flanders. She’s added to the rich meaty flavour of my life. You should talk to her, Dinah.” Everyone then told me what I should do. Florence said: “I tell you frankly, Dinah, that knowing your influence over Eva I felt sure you’d want to do something about it and asked you here in order to decide on something.” My influence over Eva being a new idea, and the last thing they would have acknowledged if they had believed it, she flung at me a guarded look. They felt, she said now, that I would see the seriousness of the situation so soon as they had fully gone into it with me. “And then?” I prompted.