Annan caught sight of Rosalind Shore near the window; Betsy shrugged her congé; he went across to Rosalind, who stood with other people looking at stills which Frank Donnell was sorting on a table.
“Hello, ducky!” said Rosalind, extending one fair hand and drawing Annan to her side. “We’re looking at Mr. Stoll’s delightful stills. Isn’t this one interesting?”—holding up the finished photograph. “How wonderfully Betsy screens! Look, Nan,”—turning to one of the girls behind her; and then, remembering, she introduced Annan to Nancy Cassell, a small, blond girl, as nervously organised as a butterfly.
“Your stories in the Planet have cost me many a tear, Mr. Annan,” said Miss Cassell. “Why do you always exterminate your heroes and heroines?”
“Somebody’s got to thin ’em out,” he explained, “or they’d become a pest like the sparrow and the potato beetle——”
“If you don’t save a pair for breeding they’ll become extinct,” retorted Nancy. “I’m going to join a hero-heroine protective association with a closed season for mating.... Please join.” Her eyes flickered provocation, curiosity, defiance. As usual he ignored the challenge.
Donnell, with his gentle but wearied smile, handed her a new photograph, and offered a second to Rosalind. Behind them, in the recess of the window, was another girl, and Donnell turned with kindly courtesy and handed her a still. As he moved aside to give her room at the table, Annan, also, politely made a place for her, noticing her supple grace as she moved forward in silhouette, the sun, behind her, outlining a curved cheek and slender neck.
And suddenly he knew her.
“Eris!” he exclaimed, delighted.
“I was afraid you didn’t remember me, Mr. Annan——”
A slim hand, scarce ventured, lay in his,—lay very still and cool and unresponsive.