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here—so I—”
    â€œOh-h, Edmund!” said Lucienne.
    â€œWhat’re you talking about, Edmund?” asked Ellen.
    A Drambuie was pressed into Edmund’s hand, despite the fact that Magda tried gently to restrain the hand that offered it. Edmund was soothed, but not much. The darts game continued. Edmund was sober enough to realize that he shouldn’t make an ass of himself by walking out at once in a huff, yet he was drunk enough to reveal his gut feeling, fuzzy as it might be to him just then, that the people around him were not his true friends any more, that they really didn’t like him. Magda persuaded him to drink more coffee.
    The Quasthoffs took their leave some fifteen minutes later.
    There was an immediate sense of relief among all.
    â€œShe is the end, let’s face it,” said Anita, and flung a dart.
    â€œWell, we got him soused,” said Tom Strathmore. “So it’s possible.”
    Somehow they had all tasted blood on seeing Edmund comically sprawled on the floor.
    Lucienne that night, having had more to drink than usual, mainly in the form of two good brandies after dinner, telephoned Edmund at four in the morning with an idea of asking him how he was. She knew she was calling him also in order to disturb his sleep. After five rings, when Edmund answered in a sleepy voice, Lucienne found she could not say anything.
    â€œHello?—Hello? Qu-Quasthoff here . . .”
    When she awakened in the morning, the world looked somehow different—sharper edged and more exciting. It was not the slight nervousness that might have been caused by a hangover. In fact Lucienne felt very well after her usual breakfast of orange juice, English tea and toast, and she painted well for two hours. She realized that she was busy detesting Edmund Quasthoff. Ludicrous, but there it was. And how many of her friends were feeling the same way about Edmund today?
    The telephone rang just after noon, and it was Anita Ketchum. “I hope I’m not interrupting you in the middle of a masterstroke.”
    â€œNo, no! What’s up?”
    â€œWell—Ellen called me this morning to tell me Edmund’s birthday party is off.”
    â€œI didn’t know any was on.”
    Anita explained. Magda last evening had invited Charles and Ellen to a birthday dinner party for Edmund at her and Edmund’s apartment nine days from now, and had told Ellen she would invite “everybody” plus some friends of hers whom everybody might not have met yet, because it would be a stand-up buffet affair. Then this morning, without any explanation such as that Edmund or she were ill with a lingering ailment, Magda had said she had “decided against” a party, she was sorry.
    â€œMaybe afraid of Edmund’s getting pissed again,” Lucienne said, but she knew that wasn’t the whole answer.
    â€œI’m sure she thinks we don’t like her—or Edmund much—which unfortunately is true.”
    â€œWhat can we do?” asked Lucienne, feigning chagrin.
    â€œSocial outcasts, aren’t we? Hah-hah. Got to sign off now, Lucienne, because someone’s waiting.”
    The little contretemps of the canceled party seemed both hostile and silly to Lucienne, and the whole group got wind of it within a day or so, even though they all might not as yet have been invited.
    â€œWe can also invite and disinvite,” chuckled Julian Markus on the telephone to Lucienne. “What a childish trick—with no excuse such as a business trip.”
    â€œNo excuse, no. Well, I’ll think of something funny, Julian dear.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œA little smack back at them. Don’t you think they deserve it?”
    â€œYes, my dear.”
    Lucienne’s first idea was simple. She and Tom Strathmore would invite Edmund out for lunch on his birthday, and get him so drunk he would be in no condition to return to his office that afternoon.