Edward grunted. Emily turned and smiled intensely at the thrower of the matchbox. Edward could not see the smile, but he noticed idly how prettily her hair gathered itself together for the knot, just above the nape of her neck. The thrower of the matchbox, who had been sitting with two women and three bottles, rose and came over to the table of Emily and Edward. He brought one of the bottles, but neither of the women. He said to Edward, “Say, mister, may I have the pleasure of speaking to your lady friend?” Edward grunted. “My name is Charlie,” said the visitor, sitting down and hospitably filling first Emily’s glass and then Edward’s from his bottle. “Are you located in San Fran? My home-city’s Seattle.” “Mine is London (Eng.),” replied Emily briskly. “I’m doing a stunt. Round the World on a Motor Scooter.” “Gee....” exclaimed Charlie. “An auto-scooter! Mine’s a bum job—selling Bindloss’s Suspenders. An auto-scooter round the world.... Holy Gee! And where does your husband climb on?” Emily interrupted herself. She had already begun to answer the expected question—And how do you like America? “Not my husband, my advance agent,” she said. “He doesn’t climb on anywhere. He runs behind.” “Gee!” exclaimed Charlie. “Well, say, listen. I belong to the Welcoming Committee of Seattle. I’ll tell the world it’d be highly appreciated if you could put Seattle someway on your skedule and say a few words in the Wesleyan Hall. We don’t get too many auto-scooter experts on this side; no ma-am, believe me.” “I’d be delighted,” replied Emily. “I’ll have to go to Seattle to get to Alaska, won’t I? I did give a lecture once before by mistake. I was going round the world then on a Caterpillar Tractor—demonstrating it, you know. I had a mechanic and a friend on board. We passed sounds of shouting in a saloon in Dryville, Mo. My friend went in to enquire the reason and he came out presently with the chairman, having by some mistake led him to understand that we were each prepared to give a short address to the meeting. I gave rather a clever word picture of Piccadilly (Eng.) during an air-raid. It was unfortunate that the English accent had never before been heard in Dryville, Mo., so I believe the meeting took my address for a farmyard imitation. My friend, a Philadelphian, spoke lucidly on the Mating of Canaries in Captivity. The mechanic was very shy; when he was finally pulled from behind the bar and placed on the platform he said nothing but ‘My God.’ Nobody thought to tell us until we were leaving that the meeting was really supposed to be about Seventeen Year Locusts.” “Is that right?” asked Charlie with a confused look on his face. “Say listen, ma’am. You’re not married?”