He could feel the cold and usual Edward inside him saying, “My party is spoilt by this damned piece of sensationalism. My luck all over.” But, “Oo, what a party,” was still in his ears, and his delighted eyes were full of the fire. He was indifferent to the poems or the twenty-five dollars owing for the futile supper. The firemen had fat jaws and looked smugly efficient, but if one half closed one’s eyes and looked at them one could imagine they looked like heroes. Pursued by the dull, reluctant snakes of hose they entered the restaurant in order to turn a fusillade of water upon the enemy from an unexpected direction. Looking in through the steamy window of the basement, the delighted guests could see the bright helmets of the heroes going round the table about which so lately plates of commonplace pork and beans had circulated. “My poem will never be read now,” thought Edward. Heroes had devoured the air in which his poem might have been read. It was a very vulgar little fire after all. It would only have a line or two in tomorrow’s _Examiner_. Quite soon it admitted itself beaten, and the perforated house sat blanketed in smoke, looking very sheepish. “Why, what d’you know about that,” said Mr. Hope, as the first fire-engine negligently moved away with a mild howl. “Well, Edward, it’s your party,” said Rhoda. “What shall we do about it. I’ll say it’s late and not worth while to settle down again.” “Don’t let’s read any more poems anyway,” said Edward. Everyone began to say Good-bye in the street. All the automobiles of the guests opened their bright eyes like sleepy servants pretending they had never been asleep. To the loud snores of awaking engines Emily said to Edward, “I wish the law didn’t hate fire so. It would be fun to have a garden of fire and plant little seedling fires in the moonlight....” “I don’t like fire. It makes a fool of one.” Edward went into the restaurant to pay for the supper. The long hot room looked tired and almost indecent. The poems were scattered about the disordered table. A fallen bottle of wine had given up the ghost pillowed on a sheaf of poems and paper crabs. Edward found his own poem—which had been the leader of the sheaf—disgraced and brought very low. It was on the floor, and stamped upon it was the wet imprint of a rubber heel. As he picked it up he saw that Emily was waiting for him in the doorway. She came along the room towards him. “Edward....” she said in an impatient voice, and took his arm and shook it. He could hardly hear what she said. She looked flushed and excited. Did she say, “It makes my life so lovely—to be loved?...” Did she say that? Edward’s thoughts were in ashes. She was watching him so insolently. He crumpled the muddy copy of the poem and put it into her hand. He felt nothing but an angry anxiety that she should love his poem and that she should see how it had been insulted. They heard Rhoda’s voice outside, “Emily.... Emily....” CHAPTER THREE