If Annan supposed he was to see Eris frequently during those first enchanted days, he presently realised his mistake. She was working under pressure at the studio. * * * * * Pressure, due to laziness and ignorance, seldom bears hard on the incompetents who cause it. In this case it was due to hasty organization and Mr. Creevy’s direction. And Eris was always about to take a train when Annan called her on the telephone,--always starting “on location,” or “working late at the studio,” or kept idle awaiting “re-takes.” These phrases began to irritate Annan; but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. * * * * * In New York, theatres were closing for the summer; roofs and beaches opening; synthetic fruit-drinks appeared. June did her pathetic best for the noisy, shabby city in park and square;--put on her prettiest in green leaves and blossoms. The Park Department ruined the effort with red and yellow cannas. God knows whether New York’s dull and bovine eyes notice such things at all. Does the ox notice the wild flowers he chews, or the ass admire the thistle blossoms before munching? But why New York is not nauseated by its floral display remains a mystery. The only dose the aborigine notices is an emetic. But even red and yellow cannas in combination left New York’s bowels unaffected. Still, ailanthus and catalpa in Governor’s Place spread once more their cool, green pools of shade over parched sidewalks; ampelopsis on Annan’s house and an ancient wistaria twisted over the iron balcony did their missionary part to touch the encysted hearts of those who ‘have eyes but see not.’ A white butterfly or two fluttered through Governor’s Place. Annan’s house, stripped for summer, was cool and dusky and still, haunted by a starched and female phantom that flitted through the demi-light in eternal quest for moth and dust and rust. * * * * * The only inclination of a man really in love is to keep at work in the absence of the beloved. Nothing else helps to slay the intolerable hours and days. It was thus with this young man. Eris on location was so tragic a calamity that he could endure it only by rushing headlong into the clutch of literature. All day, in dressing-gown and slippers, pen in hand, he scratched madly at a pad. Nourishment was set before him at proper intervals; he ate it at improper intervals. But the pinched look had left his youthful and agreeable features and shadows were gone from cheek and temple. Every day he wrote a morning and an evening letter to Eris. And no doubt it was her letters to him that were feeding him fat. Sometimes Coltfoot dropped in to lounge in an arm-chair and smoke his pipe and lazily observe the younger man, _flagrante delicto_ with his brazen Muse. And once Rosalind coolly invaded his threshold, announced with a sniff by the Starched One.