“I’m not trying to. When you see her and talk to her you’ll agree with me that she is as virtuous as she is beautiful. Of course,” he added, “virtue without beauty is unknown in polite fiction, and is to be severely discouraged.” “You’re the master,” snapped Mrs. Sniffen. “I know my place. I ’ope others will know theirs--particularly minxes----” “Now, Xantippe, don’t freeze the child stiff. I’m very sure she isn’t a minx----” Mrs. Sniffen coldly laid down the law of suspects: “_I’ll_ know what she is when I see her.... There’s minxes and there’s ’ussies; and there’s sluts and scuts. And there’s them that walk in silk and them that wear h’aprons. And there’s them that would rather die where they lie than take bed and bread of a strange young gentleman who follows ’is fancy for a lark on a ’ot night in the Park. ’Ussies are ’ussies. And I’m not to be deceived at my time o’ life.” Annan chipped an egg, undisturbed. “I know you, Xantippe,” he remarked. “You may not like some of the people who come here, but you’ll be nice to this girl.... Take her breakfast to her at ten-thirty; look her over; come in and report to me.” “Very well, sir.” Annan went on with his breakfast, leisurely. As he ate he read over his pencilled manuscript and corrected it between bites of muffin and bacon. It was laid out on the lines of those modern short stories which had proven so popular and which had lifted Barry Annan out of the uniform ranks of the unidentified and given him an individual and approving audience for whatever he chose to offer them. Already there had been lively competition among periodical publishers for the work of this new-comer. His first volume of short stories was now in preparation. Repetition had stencilled his name and his photograph upon the public cerebrum. Success had not yet enraged the less successful in the literary puddle. The frogs chanted politely in praise of their own comrade. The maiden, too, who sips the literary soup that seeps through the pages of periodical publications, was already requesting his autograph. Clipping agencies began to pursue him; film companies wasted his time with glittering offers that never materialised. Annan was on the way to premature fame and fortune. And to the aftermath that follows for all who win too easily and too soon. There is a King Stork for all puddles. His law is the law of compensations. Dame Nature executes it--alike on species that swarm and on individuals that ripen too quickly. Annan wrote very fast. There were about thirty-five hundred words in the story of Eris. He finished it by half-past ten.