“Eris,—Eris!” he repeated with a boyish warmth so unfeigned that the bright colour slowly came into her face and her hand reacted nervously to his.
Rosalind gave them a lazy glance over her shoulder: “Ding-dong! Take your corners,” she said, offering them a still in which Eris figured. And, to Eris: “I’ll tell you something, my dear; if I screened like you I’d quit squalling top notes.... Look at her in this one, Barry! Isn’t she too sweet? Isn’t Eris wonderful, Frank?”—to Mr. Donnell, who smiled in his amiable, tired way and sorted out more photographs.
“Here, my dear,” said Rosalind, offering another still to Eris, “I can stand a prettier girl than I am for just so long. But you and Barry may admire indefinitely if you like.”
The lovely colour of embarrassment came into the girl’s face as she took the photograph thrust upon her:
“Mr. Stoll gets the best out of one,” she protested. “The rest is all in the make-up, Rosalind——”
“The rest is all in you,” retorted Rosalind. “You’re scaring us all stiff with your beauty. God help us to bear it.”
Eris, holding her own picture, let her flushed glance stray toward Annan as he bent beside her.
“You’re coming into your own, Eris,” he said gaily. “I can see what you have done for yourself already.”
“You can see what you have done for me,” she replied under her breath.
“What?”