“That dame certainly was a goatgetter,” he admitted. “These folks is fifty fifty. Sometimes they fall for dope like that most before you begin putting it over. Sometimes they don’t, that’s all there is to it. It’s fifty fifty.” Mathematically speaking he was wrong. The percentage of weak housewives willing to invest money in the Classics was nothing like fifty per cent. Yet the general result of the day was not discouraging to Edward. He looked back with a certain excitement to a day spent climbing up steep geranium-bordered steps to inexplicably friendly interviews. He looked forward still to making five dollars a day and refused to analyse, even to himself, the differences of manner between himself and his instructor. Next day he was allowed to go by himself. He studied North Berkeley on the map like a lover studying the portrait of his mistress. He decided to begin work at a street the name of which reminded him, without reason, of Emily. He made the stopping of the street-car a secret test of the coming day’s chance of success. If it should stop at his corner for passengers other than himself it would mean success—five dollars—perhaps a record—ten dollars.... A group of women stopped the car at his corner and he was very glad until, on calling at the first two houses, he found that the group had consisted of potential clients of Milton, departing for their marketing. At the third house the housewife was in. Edward did not begin with, “Say, mother, what are you doing for your boy?” He lost his head. He began lamentably, “I say, I’ve got a book here to sell.” The mistress of the house shook her head sadly at him. “I dare say you have, but I haven’t the money to spend.” “Oh, sorry ...” said Edward and turned towards the street again. “Wait a moment. I believe you’re English. I am English too—a remittance woman. How rash of you to take up salesman’s work in a country of salesmen. Would you like to come in?” “I have my methods and the instructor had his,” thought Edward complacently as he followed her in. “The results seem to be the same.” He looked with cool hope at the “remittance woman.” She had rather a flat crumpled face and very soft looking matt skin. Her pince-nez were the only firm thing in her face; they obviously pinched very strongly. “I must introduce you to my only friend,” she said waving her hands towards an apparently empty corner of the living-room. Then Edward saw that a canary was suspiciously eyeing him from the dresser. Edward chuckled doubtfully. “Have you really no other friends?” he said, telling himself that the woman was rather morbid. “None,” replied the Englishwoman placidly. “The people I know in England pay me to make my home on another continent. I am unfortunate in being hateful to everyone I meet.” “Haven’t you any relations?” asked Edward lamely.