“Gee, she’s had some knocks,” said the saloon keeper. He came round the counter and rang the bell of the bicycle. “Next time you come around this ways, mebbe ... well, brother, I’ll trust you. You kin have a hot dog on me and a cup-a coffee. I’ll loan you a coupla bucks on it. That’ll take you as far as Frisco.” “Obstacles are nothing to Our Hero,” thought Edward and then, “Cliff won’t be surprised. Nor will Pop. Pop will say that’s what comes of picking up with a Britisher.’ He’ll spit and pretend he’s spitting on England.” San Francisco seemed to Edward to be set in pearls. Pearl clouds bowled about the hills; the bay and the Golden Gate had the opaque glow of pearls. The little tram lifted him up the steep streets towards Rhoda—no, towards Emily. From the top of the straight hill he saw the city lying in curious leaning perspectives. Houses on other hills seemed built upon each other like the stones of great pyramids. The air was full of white sun and all the shadows were trim. Misgivings met him halfway up the wooden outside stairway that led to Rhoda’s door. No-one answered the bell. He could not believe the silence. He rang again and again. No-one answered. He stood on the stairs with an empty mind. Then he began to remember running down those stairs, pursuing Emily after his first meeting with her. It seemed to him now that he had not loved her at all while she had been here, within reach. He could not remember his past feelings. He could remember nothing but looking at her. The Edward of those days was a blank to him now. He had lived then outside himself, living austerely on the intermittent sight of her. Now he could not even remember what it was that he had seen in her face, he could not remember what it was that gave her eyes that starred look. Was it because they were set so deep under her strong black brows? The janitress stood at the foot of the stairs. “Mrs. Bird ain’t to home. Gawn south somewheres in Louisiana. Didn’t you-all see it in the paper? She done had a collapse.” Edward did not answer. He looked down at the janitress. He could not see her feet; he was so steeply above her. He could see, however, that some of her hair was false and did not match the rest. After a minute she was gone. Avery Bird had come half-way up the wooden stairs before Edward really believed that he was there. They looked at each other in unfriendly silence. Avery looked frantic; his face was a yellowish white; his thick lips were fixed in a straight line; his cheeks were as hollow as though he were sucking them in. Even his curly black hair looked crushed. After he had looked at Edward for a minute he pushed by him and unlocked the door. “Can’t you leave us alone?” he said. Edward seemed to himself to dwindle. He could hardly believe that anyone had spoken so. “Our Hero—what? Are heroes so addressed? _Can’t you leave us alone?_ It is intolerable. I am an absolute and appalling failure.”