“Emily,” added Avery Bird, “is going with another party to another place.”
Rhoda Romero was a merciful woman and, though Edward’s face was so tragic as to be ridiculous, she said, “Emily will meet us at Yosemite.”
“You haven’t treated us to C yet,” said Mr. Bird, going towards the door to show how entirely devoid of interest he expected C to be. Avery disliked most people, but he detested Edward. The view of Mr. Bird with which poor Edward was most familiar was that of his back as he sauntered away into another room. Whenever Edward noticed this he reminded himself morbidly of his own unpopularity, but apart from this he much preferred Mr. Bird’s absence to his savage tongue.
“Come out with me, Rhoda,” said Edward, “to one of those little beaches.... I am so excited ... and unhappy. You are the only person in the world crazy enough to be good to me.”
The little beaches line the southern shore of the Golden Gate. Great rocks—dragon’s teeth—are sown in the sand there, and these, turned into warriors, fight the storms. The sea beats against them and the sound of it is sometimes like whips and sometimes like guns. Now a rock stood between Edward and the sea. Each wave as it struck the rock threw up a fist of spray which opened quietly like a hand in the air.
“This party,” began Edward. “Rhoda, I adore Emily. I want Emily to come to my party and see me at the top of my hour. And yet how shall I make it my hour? Rhoda, Rhoda, can’t you save me? What kind of an hour can I have?”
“Why, Edward,” exclaimed Rhoda. “Believe me, folks are just the simplest animals in the world. Nobody despises anyone without he despises himself, and nobody despises a host who pays for good unpretentious eats and drinks at any amusing dive. Why don’t you think out some cute little notion to surprise us all. You’ve no idea how easy us folks are to amuse.”
Edward retired into the shadows of his agonised soul. He tried to imagine himself introducing a cute little notion with a light roguish gesture. “Now, folks, guess what’s going to happen next....” Could such words be uttered in Edward’s husky and heavy voice? And then what would happen? Something would try to happen and fail. Edward turned simultaneously hot and cold as he imagined the scene. Avery would say something about British humor. Rhoda would be noisy and helpful. Melsie Ponting would pretend to faint on the nearest man’s shoulder. And Emily——
“For I must invite Emily,” he said aloud. “I won’t have a party without Emily. Please, Rhoda, help me in this matter of Emily. Nobody helps me. You don’t know how terrible it is being me. It seems as if everyone were against me and as if I mattered to nobody. Yet I matter so dreadfully to myself. If you could——”
“Aw shucks, Edward,” said Rhoda, not unkindly. “What’s eating you? It seems like everything’s got to be agony to you. Agony’s your hobby, from the way you act; and you’re welcome to it, for me. But you don’t stop at that, you got to tell everybody how it is. Don’t we all feel blue now and then without having to act a hundred and fifty per cent intense about it? If you get any kick out of feeling that way about Emily, go ahead, go right on feeling it. But have a heart and let up on agony for a while.”