The discussion lasted for about seventy minutes. It ended thus: “Why, what’d I wanter loan Ed my wheel for? He’s not _my_ beau. Mom, here’s Sis’ beau after my wheel. He’d skip with it, as likely as not. It’s my wheel anyway.” “Well, then, you won’t get any more music off my Victrola. I’ll lock it up, you mean thing. Mom, isn’t brother the mean thing?” “Lock it up all you want. I can live without music, I guess. I’m not one of your British highbrow lords.” Unperturbed, Mom read _Mother’s Magazine_, her square florid face resting on its many chins like a shut door at the top of steps. Mr. Weber picked his teeth with clicking noises and looked at the floor as though he could see through it. When Edward awoke on Monday morning, Cliff was gone. Miss Weber was knocking on the door. “Brother says you can have his wheel,” she said through the door. “I gotter catch my train in a minute. Come down till I show you where the wheel is.” Edward felt for a moment sorry that his eyes looked so ugly immediately after he awoke. “It’ll disillusion her, poor soul,” he thought, putting on his overcoat. “Perhaps it’s as well....” “I’d better not borrow your brother’s bike, thanks awfully. He didn’t seem really keen for me to have it.” “Shucks,” said Miss Weber guiltily. “He’s crazy for you to have it. Nothing’ll happen. You can’t eat it, can you? Come ahead.” The last words he ever heard from Miss Weber were spoken in the garage. “My, look at your legs! Do all Britishers wear jazz suits in bed? I’ll say old Cliff got a good laugh over that suit. My, a quarter of seven ... I must hustle. By-bye, Ed, gimme a hug. Call in at the office any time.” When Edward said good-bye to his host and hostess, Mr. Weber spat in a pointed and rude way on to a spot near Edward’s left foot. It hurt Edward’s feelings rather. “Somehow I don’t get on with coarse people, especially in America. Few people appreciated a man of our Hero’s exquisite fibre,” he thought, without much conviction. Edward had two dollars and fifty cents. He was not a very good manager but he lived on that money for three days. He did not sell a single book. “If I were the hero of a book,” he thought once, “nobody would ever believe that I had made so complete a failure of such a simple job. Never one sale. Other people in books have ups and downs in their businesses, but I have only downs—and such deep downs. I can’t think what is the matter with me. It is really that Emily is a part of me that hasn’t fitted on yet—the successful and splendid part. Emily and I could be a man and a woman. Without her I am not even a man.” “Never mind. I have only to wait. People never go on in such an agony of wanting without at last getting what they want.” The further away Emily went the more did Edward forget the hopelessness of his suit. He only remembered the softer aspects of Emily’s face.