‘You’ll be taken right into the social and artistic activities of the community. Why, I wouldn’t wonder if you’d be invited to a reception-tea by Mrs. Stotes Emery — and there’s a real author for you — her husband is the big bond house, and she’s had poems published in a bound book that, I know for a fact, has been sent to G. B. Wells and a number of other famous foreign scribes for their criticism, and she’d be tickled to death to advise and inspire you . . .’

‘Comrade Bogey!’ Gene was smiling; Gene sounded affectionate. ‘We’re both working the same side of the avenue! I address street meetings myself. I’m afraid you don’t understand that our little sheet is entirely subversive. We’re what is known as Reds — Radicals — Dangerous Alien Elements; and I’m afraid that Pansy Park . . . You did say, didn’t you, that was the name of your garden suburb?’

‘No; it’s Lilac Lane. Pansy Park would make a swell name to use, though. Excuse me if I jot it down.’

‘Certainly, comrade. What I’m getting at is that your sterling community would throw us out on our ears.’

‘That’s just where you’re off your base. Red Radicalism is the newest, the most fashionable racket there is today. Nothing a banker’s wife likes so much as to hear that her husband may get stuck up before a firing squad. Say, nothing will get publicity and pack his pews for a liberal clergyman, with a wife and seven children and a mortgage, as much as to say at a society dinner party that family life is going to be abolished. No. You boys come in with us and we’ll give you three months’ rent free.’

‘So kind of you, comrade, but we happen to believe in our “racket”. We don’t like rich women that give you tea and advice.’

‘Good God, who does! I’m not talking about liking it; I’m talking about young fellows trying to get along!’

Not for fifteen minutes did Gene make a real effort to get rid of Ben Bogey, for like all people who work in offices, including magazine offices, publishers’ offices and the clangorous offices of latter-day authors, with their lecture and radio and cinema departments, Gene was pleased by anything like an excuse to stop telephoning. When Ben went cheerily out, Howard stuttered, ‘S-s-say, could I see you for just a minute, Mr. Bogey? Let’s go across the street and have a cuppacoffee.’

At Ye Olde Robin’s Egg Rotisserie, Howard confided, ‘I’m finishing up college next year, and I’ve been thinking right along I’d like to go into the real-estate game. Course I’ve been offered chances in developing television and frog farms and all that sort of bunk, but real estate has always been my one ambition.’

Howard was not lying; he was merely being dramatic and self-convinced, as was Howard’s father when he said that he liked writing orders in triplicate.

‘I’m not a communist, you understand, Mr. Bogey; I was just in there because I’ve got a sister works there. Say, I’ve got a swell idea for a new kind of suburb.’