“I made myself out a bad sort. That was the situation,--a nice girl out o’ luck, a rotter, a quick etching in of the Park situation--then through remorseless logic I finish you in the spotlight. You’re done for; but I drift away through darkness, complacent, furtive, dangerous,--the bacteriological symbol of cosmic corruption,--the Eternal Cad.” From the first moment he had spoken to her in the Park the night before, his every word had fascinated her. Never before had she been in contact with that sort of mind, with the vocabulary that was his, with words employed as he employed them. The things this man did with words! Not that she always understood them, or their intent, or the true intent of the man who uttered them. But this man’s speech had seemed, suddenly, to have awakened her from sleep. And, awakened, everything he said vaguely excited her. Blind, unknown forces within her stirred when he spoke. Her mind quivered in response; her very blood seemed stimulated. It was as though, shrouding her mind, vast cloudy curtains were opening to disclose undreamed of depths darkly pulsating with veiled brilliancy. Out, into interstellar space, lay the road to Truth. She thought of her dream--of her wings. She lay looking at Annan, waiting for words. “Why do you look at me so oddly?” he asked, smiling. “I like what you say.” “About what?” “About anything.” No man is proof against the surprise and pleasure of so naïve an avowal. Annan reddened, laughed, flattered and a little touched by his power to please so easily. Looking at her very amiably and complacently, he wondered what effect he might have on this odd little pilgrim if he chose to exert himself. He could be really eloquent when he chose. It was good practice. It gave him facility in his stories. Considering her, now, a half-smile touching his lips, it occurred to him that here, in her, he saw his audience in the flesh. This was what his written words did to his readers. His skill held their attention; his persuasive technique, unsuspected, led them where he guided. His cleverness meddled with their intellectual emotions. The more primitive felt it physically, too. When he dismissed them at the bottom of the last page they went away about their myriad vocations. But his brand was on their hearts. They were his--these countless listeners whom he had never seen--never would see. But he had spoken, and they were his---- He checked his agreeable revery. This wouldn’t do. He was becoming smug. Reaction brought the inevitable note of alarm. Suppose his audience tired of him. Suppose he lost them. Chastened, he realised what his audience meant to him,--these thousands of unknown people whose minds he titivated, whose reason he juggled with, and whose heart-strings he yanked, his tongue in his cheek. “Eris,” he said with much modesty, “have you ever read any of my stuff?” “No. May I?” she asked, shyly.