Young brother Cliff was a child of nature, a child, as it were, of urban nature. He had no reticences, it seemed to Edward, who was much afraid of him. There was no telling what young brother Cliff would say next. “’S’matter with Ed’s chin—’s’all pimples?” he would say after a long rude silence. Or, “Say Mom, Ed sweats at night same as Will useter.” Edward slept in Cliff’s room during the two nights of his visit. Young Cliff wore “Jazz clothes”; they were very tight under the arms. It seemed as if his clothes were made to be worn with the elbows always up, on a desk or on a lunch counter. They were very urban clothes. But Cliff was much pleased with them. He had no country clothes or country pursuits. He was frankly amused at Edward’s English clothes. “Ed’s clothes fit him like the shell of a peanut.” Cliff’s one Calistoga amusement was to stand in front of the drug-store while the Calistoga young women turned this way and that as they preened themselves on the sidewalk before him. On Sunday morning Edward accompanied Cliff on this exercise. After looking with rude intensity at the figures and legs of all the young women in sight, Cliff selected two—the two with the barest necks and the largest imitation pearls—and offered to buy them sodas. Edward and Cliff and the two young women sat in a row on tall hinged stools at the drug-store counter. Cliff hardly spoke one word to the girls, though several times he jovially kicked the shin of the nearest. Apart from this he exchanged apparently amusing but incomprehensible badinage with the soda-mixer behind the counter. The girls powdered their noses and talked in indifferent low voices to each other. They did not seem to mind being excluded from manly conversation. But twice Cliff turned to them and said—of the ice cream soda—“Slips down easy, don’t it, kid?” and then Edward was shocked at the instant change of their expression to an obsequiously bright admiring look. “I thought there were more men than women in California,” said Edward afterwards. “Why do these girls cringe so, anyway before they’re married?” Cliff did not give Edward much attention. “Never too many beaux for these skirts,” he said. “Say, Edward, did you see the way they was tickled to death by your British pants?” Miss Weber was naturally more attentive to Edward than were the others, but she was disappointed in him. For three hours on a perfect Sunday afternoon she sat on the couch close to Edward in the stuffy living room, but Edward did not seem to know what was expected of him. When Miss Weber said, “Say, listen, Ed, tell me about the way English girls act with their beaux.” Edward actually began to do so. Usually so sensitive about the impression he was making, he was quite complacent now.