The culinary clatter of Hattie in the kitchen came to him fitfully; shrill voices from ragged children at play in the sunset-flooded street; the grinding roar of motor trucks herded like leviathans toward their west-side corrals; the eternal jar and quiver of the vast, iron city. Otherwise, silence; a heated stillness in the isolated abode of Eris, “Daughter of Discord”; the subdued breath of his roses in the air, which glimmered with gilded sun-dust; red rays from the west painted across the eastern wall. And, possessing all, a hushed magic--a spell invisible--the intimacy of this absent girl;--its mystery, everywhere--in the shadowy doorway beyond, from which stole the scent of unseen lilies.... So intimate, so part of her seemed everything that even his roses appeared intruders here in the rosy demi-dusk where sun-rays barred door and window of her sanctuary with barriers of crimson fire. * * * * * The evening paper had slipped to the floor. His speculative eyes, remote, were fixed on the red rods of waning light: he sat upright, unstirring, in the attitude of one who hears without listening, but awaits the unheard. * * * * * She came up the stairs, running lightly; flung open the door ajar, greeted him with a little gasp of happy, breathless recognition. When she could explain at her ease: “Frank Donnell is patching in and re-taking with me before Mr. Creevy begins. To-morrow we finish, and the day after--” she laughed excitedly, “--I begin with my own company!” “Wonderful!” he admitted; “I hope you’ll be as happy and as fortunate with your new director, Eris.” “I hope so. I’m very fond of Mr. Donnell----” She pulled off her blue turban, glanced over her shoulder into the mirror, turned and looked happily at Annan. Then her smile faded. “Aren’t you well?” she asked. “Certainly I am. Why?” “I thought--you seemed thin--a trifle tired----” “Bored,” he nodded briefly. “Why?” she demanded, astonished. “I don’t know. Probably because I’ve missed you.” Recognising only a jest in kindness meant, she smiled response and went into her bed-room. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “my room is full of lilies!” She came to the door, inarticulate with gratitude, exaggerating, as always, kindness of giver and beauty of gift; then inadequately thanked him--invited him to enter and see where Hattie had placed his flowers. “Don’t sleep with them; they’ll give you a headache,” he remarked. For a little while she lingered over the scented flowers. Then there was just a moment’s hesitation; and, as he did not seem inclined to leave, she seated herself at her dressing table, shook out her bobbed hair--fleeting revelation of close-set ears and nape milk-white under thickest chestnut curls.