Somebody took his hat and stick and he walked into the directors’ suite of _The Looking Glass_. There were a lot of people dancing in the handsome board-room--flowers, palms, orchestra--all the usual properties. The supper room adjoining was gay with jewels and dinner-gowns, clink of silver, tinkle of glass, speeding of waiters flying like black shuttles through some rainbow fabric in the making. Near the door a girl--one of a group--turned as he strolled up. “Barry!” she exclaimed, and saluted him in Rialto fashion, with both arms on his shoulders and a typical district kiss. “Thank you for my flowers, ducky,” added Rosalind, “and you’re a darling to come. Here’s Betsy, by the way----” “Why, Betsy!” he said, taking her outstretched hands, “when did you arrive from the Coast?” “Yesterday, my dear, and never was I so glad to see this wretched old town. To hear Californians talk you’d think you were buying a ticket to the Coast of Paradise. But I notice the Californians remain here----” She took him by both arms: “The same boy. You don’t _look_ great. Do you _feel_ very great, dear?” “Perhaps His Greatness needs food to look the part,” suggested Rosalind. “Don’t get us any,” she added, as he turned to pay his devoirs to the others in the group. He shook hands with Harry Sneyd, bowed to Wally Crawford, encountered the mischievous gaze of Nancy Cassell, and paid his respects to her with gay cordiality. There were other people, but the flow to and fro between supper and dance cut them off. He noticed Leopold Shill, very shiny, and exchanged a perfectly polite salute with him. Beyond, the thinning black hair and sanguine face of Albert Smull were visible amid groups continually forming and disintegrating. It came into Annan’s mind that Eris also must have returned from the Coast; and he turned and made the inquiry of Rosalind. “Why, yes, she’s here somewhere.” “Where?” “Probably where the men are thickest,” drawled Rosalind. “If you see a large crowd,--and a burgundy flush,--that’s the suitors of Eris,--and Albert Smull; and you’ll find Eris in the centre of it all.” Annan laughed and strolled on. For Smull he had no enthusiasm. As for Eris, when he thought of her he felt cordially toward her. But there was now an uneasy and increasing sense of his own neglect to subdue any spontaneous pleasure in meeting her. It annoyed him to feel that he had been guilty of neglect. Until that moment he had not felt any particular shortcoming. A girl he knew came drifting out of the throng--one of his many and meaningless affinities. They always were glad to see him after the storm and stress of the verbal love affair. So she drifted away in his arms--one of the recent steps--picked up by him without effort--and they danced the thing out. Some man took her off. But there were others--plenty--all sorts. He danced enough to amuse him, thinking most of the time about his new story, and now and then of Eris.