Other men spoke to them, Dick Quilling--whose novel had been filmed for Miss Blythe--a dapper, restless young man, eternally caressing a small and pointed moustache with nicotine-stained fingers; Stoll, celebrated camera-man, silent, dreamy and foreign; David Zanger, art-director, a stumpy, fat man with no eyelashes, a round, pock-marked face, frayed cuffs and dirty fingers. Annan, looking about, discovered Betsy Blythe, returned a smile for her swift frown, and went over to make his peace for his long neglect of her. “Where’s that blooming continuity you were to do for me?” she demanded irritably. “I’m still evolving it, most beautiful of women----” “Gentle liar, you’ve never given it another thought. I suppose you can’t help gazing at people as though you mean what you say, can you, Barry?” And, to the man seated beside her--“You remember Mr. Annan, Albert?” Albert Wesly Smull got up--an elaborately-groomed man of ruddy, uncertain age. His expression, always verging on a smile, might have been agreeable if less persistent. He had a disturbing habit of smiling rather fixedly at people out of small, red-brown eyes. He knew Annan by sight, it appeared. They shook hands politely. “I used to see you in the Patroon’s Club,” said Mr. Smull. “I know your aunt very well,” he added with his sanguine smile. “Probably better than I do,” said Annan. “I’m socially disinherited, you know.” Smull’s reddish-brown eyes clung to Annan like two gadflies. “Your aunt is a very wonderful old lady,” he said; “--a great power in New York under the old régime--” His eyes began to move, leaving Annan and turning toward the window where people were grouped. “The grand dame is done for in this town,” remarked Betsy. “She’s as important in these days as a stuffed Dodo.” Annan caught sight of Rosalind Shore near the window; Betsy shrugged her congé; he went across to Rosalind, who stood with other people looking at stills which Frank Donnell was sorting on a table. “Hello, ducky!” said Rosalind, extending one fair hand and drawing Annan to her side. “We’re looking at Mr. Stoll’s delightful stills. Isn’t this one interesting?”--holding up the finished photograph. “How wonderfully Betsy screens! Look, Nan,”--turning to one of the girls behind her; and then, remembering, she introduced Annan to Nancy Cassell, a small, blond girl, as nervously organised as a butterfly. “Your stories in the _Planet_ have cost me many a tear, Mr. Annan,” said Miss Cassell. “Why do you always exterminate your heroes and heroines?” “Somebody’s got to thin ’em out,” he explained, “or they’d become a pest like the sparrow and the potato beetle----” “If you don’t save a pair for breeding they’ll become extinct,” retorted Nancy. “I’m going to join a hero-heroine protective association with a closed season for mating.... Please join.” Her eyes flickered provocation, curiosity, defiance. As usual he ignored the challenge.