“Is it a horrible sort of bourgeois respect for the mystery of my art, Eris?” She abandoned herself to laughter as his features grew gloomier. “You are funny,” she said, “but one’s first impressions of people are not easily altered.... Would you wish me to call you--Barry?” “If consistent with your commendable and proper awe of me.” For a moment or two she was unable to control her laughter. Then a moment’s hesitation, bright-eyed, flushed: “Barry,” she said, like a child plucking courage from embarrassment. * * * * * She had some books to show him from a list she had asked him to make after one of their conferences on self-improvement. They went over them together, she ardently intent on the unread pages, he conscious of her nearness; the faint, warm perfume of her bent head. Her mantel-clock struck and she looked up incredulously. “Yes,” he said, “you’ve got to go.” “It _can’t_ be noon, can it?” “I’ll drive you to the studio.” She called: “Hattie! Have you put up my lunch?” “All ready, Miss Eris, honey!” There was a silence, Eris gazing absently at the outrageous mantel-clock, Annan’s eyes on her face. She drew a long, even breath: “Time--and its hours--like a flight of bullets.... When can you come again?” “Any day--any hour you can give me----” “No.... You _will_ begin work again, won’t you?” She turned toward him. “I can’t, yet.” “Why?” “I suppose it’s because I’m so preoccupied with you.” “But--that isn’t possible!” She seemed so frankly perplexed and disturbed that he said: “No, that isn’t the reason.... I don’t know what it is.” “Are you tired, perhaps?” she asked with a winning concern in her voice, that now always seemed to stir within him those vague depths hitherto unsuspected. Her mantel-clock tinkled the quarter-hour. They both looked up at it. “Well,” he said, “you must go to _your_ work.” “It’s annoying, isn’t it?” “It’s the way I feel about _my_ work, too,” he said. “I’d rather be with you.” For a moment she did not notice the analogy. Then she turned and her face flushed in comprehension. Neither spoke for a moment. Then she rose, went to her bed-room, pulled on her hat, and came slowly out, not looking at him. As she moved toward the door his hand, lightly, then his arm detained her, drew her to him face to face, held her in slightest contact. There was a damp sweetness to her mouth as he kissed it. She did not change colour,--there was no emotion. Smooth, cool, her face touched his--softly cool her relaxed hand that he took into his. He looked into grey eyes that looked back. He kissed a fresh mouth that yielded like a flower but did not quiver. Released, she stood apart, slender, still, not aloof, nor altered visibly by the moment’s intimacy. The little clock struck the half hour. He came to her, drew her head back against his face. “You’ll have to go,” he said. “Will you let me drive you up to the studio? We’ll have time.”