“It’s beautifully cast and beautifully kissed, Betsy!” Coltfoot’s voice from the dark: “--But the censor won’t let you kiss anybody but your grandmother.” “Great stuff, Betsy,” added Rosalind from somewhere. “God and the Middle West will forgive that kiss!” “All set, Mr. Donnell,” came the operator’s voice from above. “Go ahead!” The light in the shaded globe snapped off; the drone of the machine filled the room. On the screen Eris, in a rowboat, rested on her oars and laughed at Betsy swimming toward her, pursued by her young man. His permanent wave defied the waves. Annan thought: “Betsy is sure an artist or she’d never stand for the beauty of this child, Eris.... I wonder how long she _can_ afford to stand for it?” He bent close to the girl in the wicker chair beside him: “I couldn’t know that you really had it in you, Eris, could I?” he whispered. “Do you think I have?” she breathed. He whispered: “I _know_ it. You are a born actress, Eris. Your work is charming.” He felt her breath lightly on his cheek: “It’s all Frank Donnell: _I_ wouldn’t know what to do. He tells me and shows me. I try to comprehend. I do exactly what he tells me.” “If you weren’t a born actress, even Frank Donnell couldn’t do anything with you. It’s _you_, Eris. You’re intelligent; you’re lovely to look at. I can’t see why your future isn’t in your own hands.” “I’m simply crazy to talk to you about it. Could I?” she whispered excitedly. “Of course,” he said, much flattered. “I’ve wanted to for so long. There are so many things, Mr. Annan--and you could tell me why.” Still the same, wistful cry, “Will you tell me why?”--and he remembered it, now, guiltily, sorry for his long neglect. “Are you still living in Jane Street, Eris?” “Yes.” “Shall I come to see you?” “I haven’t a place to receive you.” “Only a bed-room? It wouldn’t do, I suppose.” “They wouldn’t let me. Mrs. Plummer is strict----” “Quite right.... Do you mind dining with me some evening?” She hesitated: “Where?” “Anywhere you choose. The Ritz?” “I haven’t--suitable clothes----” “If you feel that way, will you dine with me at my house?” “You’re so kind, Mr. Annan. I’d love to! When may I----” Their whispering was making somebody in front restless. Annan’s slight pressure on her arm silenced her. He seemed to recollect that Mr. Smull sat directly in front of Eris; and, again, very vaguely he was conscious of irritation. There was no use in attempting to guess at the story which the machine above was steadily unreeling. It all seemed an inconsequential jumble of repetitions, full of aggravating close-ups--which better taste, some day, will eliminate from the screen. When he thought Mr. Smull was again quiescent, Annan placed his lips close to the unseen ear of the girl beside him: “Come Thursday at seven.... Shall I ask anybody else?” She shook her head. Then, turning impulsively to whisper to him, in the darkness her lips brushed his.