Freye Remsen floundered: “The way you said it----” “Did Emma bite you?” Winnie Conant shrieked. “Simply answer that.” “Well, yes,” acknowledged Remsen. “But what does that signify?” The editor of “Walhalla” interrupted eagerly: “I’d like you to write an article on that for my magazine. Not over three thousand words. And--” he hastened to qualify his enthusiasm--“we don’t pay much.” He embraced the group in a flourish of an extraordinarily large cigar. “I think it will be splendid. Perfectly splendid. So typical of certain aspects of American life. Treated fantastically, of course,” His eyes danced. He had a way of speaking in a series of exhalations. The party foamed. One ran across one’s friends and said inane things because in the presence of allies one rested, and encountered one’s enemies and said sparkling things because if one were not pyrotechnic it would look as if the last book had not done well. Outside the windows, shut behind their own drawn curtains for their own parade, everyone in New York pushed themselves through forced revelry. Eva said in my ear: “Will you keep your eye on Nick?” “What is he apt to do?” He looked peaceable enough. Her funny frown, which furrowed her wide brow and would never wrinkle, was bent upon me. “Trying to get rid of him?” I asked. “You are so unaccommodating,” she then sighed. “Of course I’m not trying to get rid of him. But--you wait and see!” With this hint, she walked off. I came upon her later on at the moment when Nicholas himself spied her and turned on her so brilliant a smile of joy at sight of her that she herself laughed. “Nick--you old dear!” Eva’s love-making, half the time carried on amongst her friends, could as well have been conducted on the sidewalks, so impersonal was it. Sweet as honey, her eyes soft, she stood looking at him as a fond sister might. He said to me: “In another minute she will disappoint me. She has a way of throwing cold water in a fellow’s face.” She said impatiently: “You see, Dinah? All I want is to speak to Spencer Mapes; he’s arranging for Henry Pepperel to interview me.” People coming in struggled with those who were leaving. Snatches of talk were cast upon the air and bounced back from the assault of other glass bullets. As if evoked, Spencer Mapes bobbed up, and, being an opportunist, utilized the accident of finding himself within hearing distance of Nicholas. He said to Justo Zermonte: “I think your idea for a caricature of Eva Litchfield is good. But do explain it again?” Zermonte demurred. “It sounds so foolish; but I see her that way. I should do her with her neck elongated, and her mouth without human emotion, and her eye--just one eye showing--and looking, looking, so watchful for those who make a move towards her. I should take all humanity out of her. It would be the only way to do her--you see?”