However, Barry Annan appeared to thrive. All was well with him. All was going “according to plan.” His newest novel, scarcely begun, promised dazzlingly. He was eager, always, to get at it. That was a most excellent sign. He even preferred writing it to doing anything else. Another good sign. Otherwise all was well with him, and going well. His love affairs, always verbal ones, distracted him agreeably and were useful professionally. Easily, as always, he slipped out of one into another with no discomfort to himself and only a brief but deeper pang for the girl. Few of these mildly amourous episodes resulted in anything except a rather more agreeable and care-free friendship,--as in the cases of Betsy Blythe and Rosalind Shore. Disillusioned they liked him better but in a different way. Probably Eris would, too, when she returned from the Coast,--if ever she did return. Thus, without effort, he reassured himself concerning her three unanswered letters. His was the gayest and most optimistic of consciences,--a little gem of altruism. Per se it functioned beautifully. He never meddled. It ran like a watch ticking cheerily. But it never had had anything serious to deal with. How heavy a weight it might sustain there was no knowing. In light marching order his conscience had guided him very nicely, so far. How would it steer him when it carried weight? * * * * * It was early in June that he encountered Coltfoot by chance. They had not met in months. Coltfoot did not look shabby nor even wilted, but he wore last year’s summer clothes and straw hat, and his dark, rather grim features seemed thinner. Annan insisted that they lunch together at the Province Club. They did. Their respective reports revealed their situations since they last had met; Annan had only success to recapitulate,--Coltfoot a cordial and sincerely happy listener. But it had gone otherwise with Coltfoot. When he resigned from the _Planet_ because his self-respect couldn’t tolerate its policy, the business situation was not such as to make job hunting easy. “Outside of any salary I’ve income enough to live on rather rottenly,” he remarked, “but I don’t want to.” “You mean you haven’t a job, Mike?” “Oh, I’ve got one--one of those stinking magazines which can be bought any day and which always are being ‘revived’ by ‘new blood.’ “I’m supposed to be that fresh and sanguinary reservoir. We may file a petition in bankruptcy or continue. There’s no telling.” “What an outrage! A man of your calibre----” “Don’t worry. Somewhere in dusty perspective the job I’m destined to nab is lumbering along the highway of life. I’ll hold it up when it tries to pass by me.” “You know, Mike, that if ever you’re short----” “Thanks.... No fear. What sort of fodder do you next hand out to your famishing public?” “I’m preparing it.... You won’t like it, Mike.” “Same graft?” “What do you mean, graft----” “You poor fish, are you touchy already?”