“You would be, you modest child. It’s splendid!----” He kept continually forcing out of his mind the fact of Smull’s part in the matter. “It’s an astonishing tribute to your talent and character, Eris. Who is your director?” “Mr. Creevy.” “Oh, Ratford Creevy?” “Yes. Emil Shunk is our camera-man. Mr. Creevy brings his staff with him.” Annan had his opinion of Mr. Creevy, but kept it. “Well,” he repeated, “that’s splendid, Eris. I’m astonished,--you wanted me to be, didn’t you?----” She laughed. “--I’m astounded. And I’m just as happy as you are--you nice, fine girl!--you clever, clever kiddie!----” They were laughing without reserve, her slim hands still clasped in his; and both turned without embarrassment when Rosalind came leisurely behind them. “Albert has been chewing his moustache for half an hour,” she drawled. “Are you actually spooning, Eris?” “How silly! Does Mr. Smull want me?” “We’re all set. Leo Shill is to announce it. You’re to group with Albert and Ratty Creevy and receive bouquets. Come, Eris; let that young man’s educated hands alone----” Eris, unconscious until then that Annan still retained her hands, withdrew them without embarrassment. Rosalind passed a beautifully plump arm around her waist, letting her amused glance linger on Annan: “The immaculate lover,” she drawled, “always busy.” And to Eris: “You’ll like him better, though, after it’s all over,--after the teething, my dear. We all bite on Barry.” CHAPTER XVIII Annan spent the entire day with Eris; came home at midnight; seated himself at his desk where his work lay in inviting disorder. But there was no more chance of his working than there was of his sleeping. It was the first time it ever had happened. He could not remember an instance when the subtle challenge of a disordered manuscript had been declined by him. But something had happened to this young man. He was in no condition to realise what. His mind, that hitherto faithful ally, seemed incompetent; trivial thoughts thronged its corridors, wandering ideas, irrelevant impressions drifted in agreeable rhythm. There was a letter from his aunt on his desk. He tore it open; glanced through it without the usual grin; laid it aside. A slight, rather vacant smile remained on his lips: he kept moving the lapel of his coat and inhaling the odour of a white clove-pink--one of a cluster that had stood in a little rose-bowl between Eris and himself at breakfast. A pencil, dislodged, rolled over his pad and dropped onto the floor. He let it lie. Neither work nor sleep attracted him. From the oddly pleasant sense of chaos in his mind always something more definite and more pleasant seemed about to take shape and emerge. Whatever it was had delicately saturated him: all his being seemed permeated, possessed with the spell of it.