One fine afternoon, a week later, lonely as a dog that has lost its master, and, like a lost dog, finding all things perplexing in the absence of the Beloved, Annan, wandering along, chanced to pass one of the great Broadway picture-theatres; and noticed Betsy Blythe and Rosalind Shore standing in the lobby. They always welcomed him with affection. They did so now. Betsy fairly bubbled energy, radiant in the warm sun-rays of success, impatient for further triumphs, excited, gossipy, cordial, voluble. “I told Albert Smull I wouldn’t renew my contract unless Frank Donnell went with it,” she said. “And I’ve nailed Frank for five more years, Barry,--and my camera-man, too. That is the only way to handle people--tell them exactly where they get off. And off they’ll get every time!” “I’d like,” remarked Rosalind lazily, “to see anybody handle Mom that way.” “What are _you_ going to do next season?” inquired Annan without much curiosity. “Sing a little song in a punk little play, for that’s where I belong and that’s my little lay.” “She’s got a sure fire comedy,” added Betsy, “and she’s the whole show. She wears practically nothing, by the way. But it’s horribly expensive.” “Where does it get me?” drawled Rosalind. “I’m fed up. _I_ don’t want to work.” “What do you want to do?” inquired Annan, amused. “You’d be surprised.... I’d like to get married and quit.” “Betsy knows. I’ll tell you, too, ducky. I’d like to marry Mike.” “Who?” he demanded, astonished. “Mike Coltfoot, ducky. He makes a living. And I make Mom’s. There’s the hitch. Mom would have my life. And Mike would draw a corpse.” Annan took her by both hands: “Bless your nice little heart,” he said, “I never dreamed that you and Mike cared for each other.” “I don’t know how _he_ feels; I only know how he says he feels,” she said cynically. “But, oh God, the fireworks if Mom gets next! Do you wonder I’m fed up with work?” Betsy said: “I tell her that if she feels that way about her profession she’d better walk out on her mother and marry Mike. I follow what I love. Every person ought to.... By the way, what has become of Eris, Barry?” “She has gone home for a rest,” he said carelessly. “Where? Back to the pigs and cows?” He reddened. “She’s gone to her home at Whitewater Farms.” After he had departed, Betsy looked at Rosalind; her rosy mouth made a small oval. “What did I do to _him_?” she asked. “He’s spiked,” nodded the latter. “I’m spiked myself, but if ever you see me as solemn about it as Barry is, why, kick my shins, dear, and accept gratitude in advance.” Then she turned to shake hands with Coltfoot, who came sauntering up, hat in hand. “Hello, old top,” she said. “You’re half an hour late, but I’d wait a lifetime for anybody who resembles you. Come on in and see Betsy cut up on the scr-r-r-een!” * * * * * Since the departure of Eris, Annan’s appetite had become an increasing source of worry to Mrs. Sniffen.