He went upstairs with the tray, knocked at the closed door. “Tuck yourself in,” he called to her. “I’ve come to nourish you. All set?” After a few moments: “Yes,” she said calmly. He went in. She sat huddled up in bed, swathed to the throat in a blue crash bath-robe. “Well”, he exclaimed gaily, “I hear unruly reports about you. What do you mean by demanding to get up and beat it?” “I can’t expect you to keep me here, Mr. Annan. I’ve been so much trouble already----” “This is clam broth. I think you can keep it down. Sip it slowly. There are toasted crackers, too----” He placed the tray on her knees. “Now,” he said, encouragingly, “be a sport!” “I’ll try.” The process of absorption was a slow one. She was very pale, and there were dark smears under her eyes. Her bobbed chestnut hair accented the slender purity of face and neck. Her hands seemed plump, but the bath-robe sleeve revealed a wrist and fore-arm much too thin. “How does it feel?” he inquired, when the cup was empty. Eris flushed. He saw that it embarrassed her to discuss bodily ills with him. Memory of her morning sickness deepened the painful tint in her cheeks: “I don’t know--know what to say to you,--I am so ashamed,” she faltered. “Eris!” he interrupted sharply. She looked up, startled, her grey eyes brilliant with unshed tears, and saw the boyish grin on his face. “No weeps,” he said. “No apologies. It’s no trouble to have you here. And here you remain, my gay and independent little friend, until you’re fit to resume this disconcerting career of yours.” “I feel well enough to dress, if Mrs. Sniffen would give me my clothes.” “Where would you go?” She made no reply. “Look,” he said, laying a hundred-dollar bill on the counterpane, “I did your story this morning. Here’s your commission.” “Please--I can’t----” “Then I shall tear up my story and hand back to the _Planet_ six hundred dollars that I need very badly.” She gave him such a piteous look that he laughed. That matter settled, he relieved her of the tray, set it outside, and returned to seat himself in a rocking-chair beside the bed. “When they pull the galley proofs of your story, would you like to read them, Eris?” “Yes, if I may.” “Why not? It’s your story.” “About--_me_?” “It’s the story of Eris. I call it ‘The Gilded Apple.’ It’s sob-stuff. You begin to whimper after the first five hundred words. Then it degenerates into a snivel, and finally culminates in one heart-shattering sob.” She had begun to understand his flippancy. And now her smile glimmered responsive to his. “If it’s really about me,” she said, “why is the story tragic?” “I gave a tragic turn to our adventure,” he explained. “How?”