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exclusive field of interest—in this case, of course, coins—and that Jannie and Sally between them had cornered Mr. Fernandez. Laurie gave every impression of being about to describe, in detail, the several innings of his latest game, and Mr. Babar had a small notebook in which he was writing busily, pausing occasionally to glance curiously at the books on the shelves, or the children’s bare feet, or the rug, or the table lamps, and then returning to his notebook to write again. I thought of telling him that the house was not ours, and that we claimed almost nothing in it, and then reflected that the furniture was of rather better quality than what we had left in the grasp of Mr. Cobb, so I was quiet.
    â€œTrouble with
most
longball hitters, you got to—” Laurie was continuing purposefully, and I turned to Mr. Lopez, who was on my left, and I smiled at him politely and he smiled back. I strongly suppressed a basic superstition which came unbidden to my mind (if you talk
loud
enough you can
make
them understand) and said, very softly, “And how long have
you
been here, Mr. Lopez?”
    He looked surprised, and thought. “Ten minute?” he said at last, tentatively.
    â€œNo, no. How long have you been in this country?”
    Again he thought. “Juan,” he said hesitantly. “Juan Lopez.”
    I smiled largely, and nodded. “And do you like it?” I asked.
    â€œOh,” he said, pondering. “Very much,” he said finally, and we both smiled, and nodded, and repeated “very much,” and smiled again.
    â€œThis is fine country,” Mr. Yashamoto said. “Very eatable food in this country.”
    â€œWe especially,” Mr. Masamitsu said suddenly, “we
especially
enjoy hot dog. And mustard,” he added wistfully. “And spaghetti.”
    â€œBoy,” Laurie said, and sighed. “And relish. And pickles.”
    â€œPeeckle?” Mr. Masamitsu turned wonderingly to Laurie. “Peeckle?”
    â€œPeeckle,” said Sally, enchanted into speech, “peeckle, peeckle, domineeckle.”
    â€œAnyway,” Laurie said, loudly overriding his sister, “I suppose you know what
rice
is, I guess? I guess you eat a lot of rice at home, don’t you?”
    Mr. Masamitsu shuddered delicately. “Indeed no,” he said with eagerness, “indeed I do not; me, I eat no rice. Indigestion,” he said widely, and everyone smiled, and nodded.
    Mr. Babar for a minute raised his head from his notebook, regarded Mr. Masamitsu intently, obviously debated making a note, and then reluctantly refrained; instead he leaned toward Sally and touched her hair gingerly and Sally turned, giggled, and said “Hey!”
    â€œYou are most kind,” Mr. Yashamoto said suddenly to my husband, “to allow us to come into this country of yours.”
    It was at this moment that, as I say, the United States government, flags flying, walked into our living room and sat down. I could see my husband’s eyes widen and knew that without warning the same realization had come to us both; here we were, unprepared, in a sort of ambassadorial role, forced to stand or fall by our reasonably representative way of life; we spoke simultaneously—was that “Yankee Doodle” sounding in the distance?—“Nice of you to come,” my husband said largely, and I said with a great heartiness, “I hope you enjoy it here.” Then everyone smiled and nodded again to each other, and I muttered, “Coffee?” and fled to the kitchen.
    Jannie and Sally, with great plans for passing cookies, followed me into the kitchen, and I gave Jannie the sugar and milk to carry, and Sally the plate of doughnuts, and came after them with the tray of iced coffee. Each of our guests solemnly accepted a glass of iced coffee and—I believe most of them thought this a ceremonial to be followed precisely—a spoonful of sugar and a