Annan mistook her age, as did everybody; and he calmly squatted down on his haunches as though condescending to a child. “Don’t be afraid to talk to me,” he said in his easy, persuasive way. “I write stories for newspapers. I’m looking for a story now. If you’ll tell me your story I’ll give you ten dollars.” Eris stared at him without comprehension. The increasing breeze blew her mop of chestnut curls upward from a brow as white as milk. “Come,” he said in his pleasant voice, “there are ten perfectly good dollars in it for you. All I want of you is your story--not your real name, of course,--just a few plain facts explaining how you happen to be sleeping here in Central Park with your little satchel for your pillow and the sky for your bed-clothes.” Eris remained motionless, one slender hand buried in the grass, the other resting against her temples. The blessed breeze began to winnow her hair again. “Won’t you talk to me?” urged Annan. “You’re not afraid, are you?” “I don’t know what to say to you?” “Just tell me how you happen to be sleeping here in the Park to-night.” “I have to save my money--” She yawned and concealed her lips with one hand. “Please excuse me,” she murmured, “I haven’t slept very well.” “Then you have _some_ money?” he inquired. “I have twenty dollars.... Money doesn’t last long in New York.” “No, it doesn’t,” agreed Annan gravely. “Did you work in a shop?” “In pictures.” “Moving pictures?” “Yes. I have a contract with the Crystal Films.” “Oh, yes. I heard about that outfit. It blew up. Did they ever pay you any salary?” “No.” “How did you happen to hook up with that bunch of crooks?” he asked. “I don’t think they are crooks. Mr. Quiss isn’t.” “Who’s he?” “Well--I think he looks up places to photograph--and he supplies extras----” “A scout. Where did you run into him?” “Near my home.” “Did your parents permit you to join that flossy outfit?” “No.” “I see. You ran away.” “I--went away.” “Could you go home now if you wished to?” “I don’t wish to.” “Then you must believe that you really possess dramatic talent.” Eris passed her fingers wearily through her hair: “I am trying to learn something,” she said, as though to herself. “I think I have talents.” “What is it you most desire to be?” “I like to act ... and dance.... I’d like to write a play ... or a book ... or something....” “Like other people, you’re after fame and fortune. I’m chasing them, too. Everybody is. But the world’s goal remains the same, no matter what you are hunting. That goal is Happiness.” She looked at him, heavy-eyed, silent. She yawned slightly, murmured an excuse, rubbed her eyes with her forefinger. “Which is your principal object in life, fame or fortune?” he inquired, smiling. “Are those the principal objects in life?” she asked, so naïvely that he suspected her. “Some believe that love is more important,” he said. “Do you?” She rested her pale cheek on her hand: “No,” she said.