Edward rarely found himself in the gratifying position of adviser. His pleasure in the novelty, however, was partly the pleasure of revenge. “When Emily looks up this way she will see me being monopolised by another woman. Serve her right.” But Emily was perversely absorbed in Mr. Banner Hope, who was singing in a half-whisper a song which he hoped was coarse enough to bring him the reputation he desired. The uncertain way in which he sang it, however, robbed the song of whatever sting it may originally have possessed. Mr. Hope must often have wished that notoriety did not need such artificial buttresses. If only some woman would commit suicide for his sake he would be a made man, but you never can count on women. “Nobody asked Hope to sing,” grumbled Edward. “They’re all treating you real mean, honey,” said Mrs. Ponting. “Anybody would think it was that Emily’s party.” “You’re not treating me mean,” said Edward gratefully. “Yet I don’t know.... Why were you so keen to sit by me?” “Because I wanted to ask you something,” whispered Mrs. Ponting. “Edward, dear, I’m just crazy to find someone plumb reliable like you going out to China who’d take my kiddie out to his dad in the Orient. For I guess I’ve gotter let him go. Edward, you’d never guess what a big mother-heart I’ve got back of all my nonsense. My kiddie’s just home to me—all the home I’ve got, Edward. You’ve never seen him but I’d just love you and him to get together—he’s just a sunny-haired, blue-eyed, little honest-to-God American, tall for thirteen years—just as high as my heart, I often tell him....” It was impossible for Edward not to be moved by sentiment. He was entirely uncynical. He was touched by vague reminders of motherhood and home and chubby baby-fingers and other movie properties. Yet all the time he knew that the thirteen-year-old sunbeam in question lived at a school near Sacramento which “made arrangements for board during vacations,” and that he had hardly ever since he was born had an opportunity to measure himself against his mother’s heart. “I know you must be damn fond of him and all that,” mumbled Edward. “It must be beastly parting with him. But you can easily get Thomas Cook or the captain of the ship to take charge of him. He’d be as safe as houses.” “Cook me no Cooks,” said Melsie Ponting archly. “There’s nobody to equal our Edward, don’t tell me. And Rhoda says you’re going to China anyway.” “I’m not going to China.” This announcement seemed to him to be fateful. “Rhoda!” shouted Melsie in a quarrelsome voice. “You told me Edward was going to China.” “So he is,” replied Rhoda with cold determination. She was very tired of Edward. He was a heavy friend, poor man. “He says he’s not going now.” “Aw, shucks.” “Rhoda, read the poetry now,” called Emily. “I’m longing to hear everybody admire mine.”