“I notice that myself,” admitted Edward, burying his face in his hands. During the depressed silence that followed, Miss Romero swept on to a divan some bananas which had been posing as still life on the table and arranged instead a more formal group of fried eggs and hot biscuits. They were half-way through breakfast before she said, in the voice of one starting a new subject, “Well, say, listen, Edward, don’t you want to come with Avery and Melsie Ponting and Banner Hope and me to Yosemite tomorrow? I’m just crazy to know what your reaction is to some of our National Parks.” “I do want to,” said Edward. “Melsie Ponting wants to have a talk with you about taking her little boy to the Orient, so that’ll suit her fine.” “Emily,” added Avery Bird, “is going with another party to another place.” Rhoda Romero was a merciful woman and, though Edward’s face was so tragic as to be ridiculous, she said, “Emily will meet us at Yosemite.” “You haven’t treated us to C yet,” said Mr. Bird, going towards the door to show how entirely devoid of interest he expected C to be. Avery disliked most people, but he detested Edward. The view of Mr. Bird with which poor Edward was most familiar was that of his back as he sauntered away into another room. Whenever Edward noticed this he reminded himself morbidly of his own unpopularity, but apart from this he much preferred Mr. Bird’s absence to his savage tongue. “Come out with me, Rhoda,” said Edward, “to one of those little beaches.... I am so excited ... and unhappy. You are the only person in the world crazy enough to be good to me.” The little beaches line the southern shore of the Golden Gate. Great rocks—dragon’s teeth—are sown in the sand there, and these, turned into warriors, fight the storms. The sea beats against them and the sound of it is sometimes like whips and sometimes like guns. Now a rock stood between Edward and the sea. Each wave as it struck the rock threw up a fist of spray which opened quietly like a hand in the air. “This party,” began Edward. “Rhoda, I adore Emily. I want Emily to come to my party and see me at the top of my hour. And yet how shall I make it my hour? Rhoda, Rhoda, can’t you save me? What kind of an hour can I have?” “Why, Edward,” exclaimed Rhoda. “Believe me, folks are just the simplest animals in the world. Nobody despises anyone without he despises himself, and nobody despises a host who pays for good unpretentious eats and drinks at any amusing dive. Why don’t you think out some cute little notion to surprise us all. You’ve no idea how easy us folks are to amuse.”