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also of Edmund.
    â€œYes, Edmund did try,” said Charles.
    â€œHis clothes are so boring even,” Anita said.
    â€œTrue. Can’t some of you men give him a hint? You, Julian.” Lucienne glanced at Julian’s crisp cotton suit. “You’re always so dapper.”
    â€œMe?” Julian settled his jacket on his shoulders. “I frankly think men pay more attention to what women say. Why should I say anything to him?”
    â€œMagda told me Edmund wants to buy a car,” said Ellen.
    â€œDoes he drive?” Peter asked.
    â€œMay I, Lucienne?” Tom Strathmore reached for the scotch bottle which stood on a tray. “Maybe what Edmund needs is to get thoroughly soused one night. Then Magda might even leave him.”
    â€œHey, we’ve just invited the Quasthoffs for dinner at our place Friday night,” Charles announced. “Maybe Edmund can get soused. Who else wants to come?—Lucienne?”
    Anticipating boredom, Lucienne hesitated. But it might not be boring. “Why not? Thank you, Charles—and Ellen.”
    Peter Tomlin couldn’t make it because of a Friday night deadline. Anita said she would love to come. Tom Strathmore was free, but not the Markuses, because it was Julian’s mother’s birthday.
    It was a memorable party in the Forbeses’ big kitchen which served as dining room. Magda had not been to the penthouse apartment before. She politely looked at the Forbeses’ rather good collection of framed drawings by contemporary artists, but seemed afraid to make a comment. Magda was on her best behavior, while the others as if by unspoken agreement were unusually informal and jolly. Part of this, Lucienne realized, was meant to shut Magda out of their happy old circle, and to mock her stiff decorum, though in fact everyone went out of his or her way to try and get Edmund and Magda to join in the fun. One form that this took, Lucienne observed, was Charles’s pouring gin into Edmund’s tonic glass with a rather free hand. At the table, Ellen did the same with the wine. It was especially good wine, a vintage Margaux that went superbly with the hot-oil-cooked steak morsels which they all dipped into a pot in the center of the round table. There was hot, buttery garlic bread, and paper napkins on which to wipe greasy fingers.
    â€œCome on, you’re not working tomorrow,” Tom said genially, replenishing Edmund’s wine glass.
    â€œI—yam working tomorrow,” Edmund replied, smiling. “Always do. Have to on Saturdays.”
    Magda was giving Edmund a fixed stare, which he missed, because his eyes were not straying her way.
    After dinner, they adjourned to the long sun parlor which had a terrace beyond it. With the coffee those who wanted it had a choice of Drambuie, Bénédictine or brandy. Edmund had a sweet tooth, Lucienne knew, and she noticed that Charles had no difficulty in persuading Edmund to accept a snifter of Drambuie. Then they played darts.
    â€œDarts’re as far as I’ll go toward exercising,” said Charles, winding up. His first shot was a bull’s-eye.
    The others took their turns, and Ellen kept score.
    Edmund wound up awkwardly, trying to look amusing, they all knew, though still making an effort to aim right. Edmund was anything but limber and coordinated. His first shot hit the wall three feet away from the board, and since it hit sideways, it pierced nothing and fell to the floor. So did Edmund, having twisted somehow on his left foot and lost his balance.
    Cries of “Bravo!” and merry laughter.
    Peter extended a hand and hauled Edmund up. “Hurt yourself?”
    Edmund looked shocked and was not laughing when he stood up. He straightened his jacket. “I don’t think—I have the definite feeling—” His eyes glanced about, but rather swimmily, while the others waited, listening. “I have the feeling I’m not exactly well liked