Rereading it, he realised it had all the concentrated brilliancy of an epigram. Whether or not it would hold water did not bother him. The story of Eris was Barry Annan at his easiest and most persuasive. There was the characteristic and ungodly skill in it, the subtle partnership with a mindless public that seduces to mental speculation; the reassuring caress as reward for intellectual penetration; that inborn cleverness that makes the reader see, applaud, or pity him or herself in the sympathetic rôle of a plaything of Chance and Fate. And always Barry Annan left the victim of his tact and technique agreeably trapped, suffering gratefully, excited by self-approval to the verge of sentimental tears. “That’ll make ’em ruffle their plumage and gulp down a sob or two,” he reflected, his tongue in his cheek, a little intoxicated, as usual, by his own infernal facility. He lit a cigarette, shuffled his manuscript, numbered the pages, and stuffed them into his pocket. The damned thing was done. Walking to the window he looked out into Governor’s Place--one of those ancient and forgotten Greenwich streets, and now very still and deserted in the intense July sunshine. Already the hazy morning threatened to be hotter than its humid predecessors. Nothing stirred in the street, not a cat, not an iceman, not even a sparrow. Tall old trees, catalpa, maple, ailanthus,--remnants of those old-time double ranks that once lined both sidewalks,--spread solitary pools of shade over flagstone and asphalt. All else lay naked in the glare. Mrs. Sniffen appeared, starched to the throat, crisp, unperspiring in her calico. “She’s ’ad her breakfast, sir.” “Oh! How is she feeling?” “Could you lend her a bath-robe and slippers, sir?” He smiled: “Has she concluded to stay here indefinitely?” “Her clothes are in the tub, Mr. Barry.” “In the bath-tub?” “In the laundry tub.” “Oh. So you’re going to do her laundry for her!” “It’s no trouble, sir. I can ’ave them for her by early afternoon.” “You’re a duck, Xantippe. You look after her. I’m going down-town to the office. Give her some lunch.” “Very good, sir.” He followed Mrs. Sniffen to the corridor, where his straw hat and malacca stick hung on a peg. “Am I right, or is she a hussie?” he inquired, mischievously. “She’s an idjit,” snapped Mrs. Sniffen. “Spanking is what she needs.” “You give her one,” he suggested in guarded tones, glancing instinctively at the closed door beyond. “Shall you be back to lunch, sir?” He was descending the stairs, his story bulging in his coat pocket. “No; but don’t let her go till I come back. I’m going to try to persuade her to go home to the pigs and cows.... And, Xantippe, there’ll be four to dinner. Eight o’clock will be all right.... I’d like a few flowers.” “Very well, sir.” Annan went out. The house had cooled during the night and the heat in the street struck him in the face. “Hell,” he muttered, “isn’t there any end to this!”