Then, in the instant, she had disengaged herself violently and had stepped clear of him, scarlet and silent. Nor spoke until he followed and she had avoided him again. “Don’t--do that,” she said unsteadily.... “You--hurt me.” “Eris! I love you----” “Don’t say that.... I don’t like it.... I don’t _like_ it,” she repeated breathlessly. A silence--confusion of hurrying atoms of time--a faint flash from chaos. “Can’t you care for me, Eris?” he whispered. She turned on him, pale, controlled: “I don’t like what you did, I tell you!... And that’s _that_!” For a long while they stood there, unstirring. “Do you dismiss me?” he asked at last. She made no reply. “Had you rather that I should go, Eris?” “Yes.” “Why?” he asked, like a whipped boy. “Because I am tired of you,” she said evenly. He stepped to the corridor, took his hat and stick, but lingered, all hot with the rebuff, despising himself for lingering. He laid his hand on the door-knob, miserably hoping, miserable in his self-contempt. “Eris!” She did not even turn her head. He left the hall door open, still miserably hoping, scorning himself, but lagging on the stairs. As he reached the street door he heard her close her own with a crash and bolt it. * * * * * It was after midnight,--and after she had finished crying,--that the girl began to undress. Once she thought she heard him return,--thought she heard his voice at her door, calling her; and her eyes flamed. * * * * * But on her pillow she began to cry again, soundlessly, one arm flung across her face. Eris, daughter of Discord.... CHAPTER XXII Coltfoot had a short note from Annan asking him to lunch. He called up, saying that he couldn’t get away until afternoon. When he did arrive at No. 3 Governor’s Place, Mrs. Sniffen said that Mr. Annan was lying down--that for the last two weeks he had not seemed to be very well. “What’s wrong with him?” asked Coltfoot. “I don’t know, sir. ’E doesn’t go out any more. ’E ’asn’t left the ’ouse in the last fortnight.” “That’s nothing. He’s working.” “No, sir; Mr. Annan don’t write. He just reads or sits quiet like till a fit takes ’im sudden, and then he walks and walks and walks.” “Does he eat?” “Nothing to keep a canary ’ealthy. It’s ’igh-balls what keep ’im up, Mr. Coltfoot; and I ’ate to say so, but it worrits me.” “Mr. Annan doesn’t drink,” said Coltfoot incredulously. “Oh, no, sir--a glass of claret at dinner--a cocktail perhaps. It’s only the last two weeks that I ’ave to keep ’im in ice and siphons.” Coltfoot, puzzled, thought a moment: “All right,” he said, “I’ll go up.” Annan, lying on the lounge, heard him and sat up. They shook hands; Annan pushed the Irish whiskey toward him and pointed to the ice and mineral water. “Mike,” he said, “is my stuff rotten?” Coltfoot, who had been inspecting his thin features, laughed. “Not so rotten,” he said. “Why?” “You once said it was all wrong.”