“Yes; and I remember that little play you wrote in school--the story of the wish, the wings, and the new hat.” She laughed, but there was the slightest shadow over the grey eyes. The shadow which renunciation casts, perhaps. “I took a longer flight than to Olympus,” she said, “and it was you I discovered above the clouds;--all by yourself, Barry,--on a funny little world, spinning up there----” “Was I busy dissecting somebody’s heart?” “Mine--I guess.” “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, sweetheart; you never shall regret marrying me. Never shall I by look or word or deed interfere with your career. If I do, chuck me!” She smiled--that tender, intelligent smile which lately was one of her charming revelations that vaguely surprised him. For the gods were granting her a little time yet--a little respite for a career the limit of which already was visible to her. He had told her, diffidently, that he was not obliged to live economically; that what he had was hers, also; that there always was sufficient to finance any arrangement she wished to make for her own productions. But the girl who had returned a hundred dollars to him when she had only twenty more in all the world was no more capable of accepting such an offer than of requesting it. Besides, no sooner had it been rumored that Eris Odell and Albert Smull no longer coöperated, than telegrams began to pour in from all sorts of people, responsible and irresponsible. Offers arrived from keen, clever, capable and ruthless producers, with releases guaranteed, and who wished to fetter her for years at the lowest figure; from enthusiastic people new in the game, with capital guaranteed but no release. Scores of communications came from various birds of prey who infest the fringes of the profession--the “don’t-do-anything-till-you-hear-from-me” boys; the noisy, persistent Gentile who lies for a living and whose only asset is the people he traps; the Jew, penniless and discredited, determined to make a commission out of anybody and undeterred by the dirt of the transaction. All of these communications Eris laid before Frank Donnell. Theirs was a close and sober friendship,--sombre even, at times--because Frank Donnell had been in love with her since her first awkward step in the Betsy Blythe company. The girl knew it; both knew, also, that the matter was hopeless. And for Frank Donnell, Eris was conscious of a gravely tender affection she never had felt for anybody else in her brief life. He had saved enough money to finance one picture for her; and he could have secured guarantees from the best of the releasing companies on his own name alone. But, again, it was one of those things that Eris could not do. It was desirable; it was legitimate business. But to use the resources of any man to whom she had given any intimate fragment of herself was not possible for Eris.