But it seemed that something was lacking to make self-entertainment worth while. Exactly what this was he did not know. There was effort now where none ever had been. And that effort was the initiative of a mind seeking, for the first time, its complement, vaguely, blindly irritated by its own incompleteness. * * * * * He went to see his aunt, but she wasn’t very glad to see him. The reason he called on her was to talk about Eris, but Mrs. Grandcourt bluntly inquired what his interest might be in an actress, and suggested that he mind his business and try to foregather with women of his own caste. “Isn’t she?” he asked rather rashly. But she, old, wise, disillusioned, and with a sort of weary comprehension of men, made it plain that the granddaughter of Jeanne d’Espremont concerned herself alone. As he was taking his leave: “I can imagine,” she remarked, “nothing as contemptible as any philandering with this child by any man of my race.” He went out with that in his ear. It bored him all day. Finally it interested him. Because that is exactly what would have happened in one of his own stories---- Abruptly he was conscious that it _was_ happening. That this had to do with his restlessness. That possibly it was desire to see this girl which was disturbing him. He realised, now, that he wanted to see Eris; was impatient at delay. Well, that was interesting anyway. And, now that the possible cause of discomfort seemed clearer, he decided to examine and analyse it coolly, professionally.... * * * * * Toward one o’clock in the morning, dead tired, he gave it up. The cause of restlessness still abided with him. He fell asleep, weary of visualisation--young eyes, crystal-grey, that told him nothing, answered nothing--eyes virginal, unaware, immaculate, incorruptible. CHAPTER XXI When Annan arrived at the Jane Street apartment, Eris had just telephoned Hattie, the negro maid, that she had been detained at the studio; would be late; and to say this to Mr. Annan. So constantly yet unconsciously during the two days’ separation had he visualised this meeting, pictured it to the least detail, that this slight delay in realisation tightened a nervous tension of which he had been aware all day. It was rather ridiculous; he had seen her only two days before. It had seemed much longer. Also, knowledge of her dinner engagement with Albert Smull had not quieted his impatience. But there had been nothing to do about it except to send her fresh roses and a great sheaf of lilies. Over the telephone he told Hattie to place these in her bed-room before she returned. So now he picked up the evening paper in the little living-room and composed himself to wait.