He bent close to the girl in the wicker chair beside him: “I couldn’t know that you really had it in you, Eris, could I?” he whispered.
“Do you think I have?” she breathed.
He whispered: “I know it. You are a born actress, Eris. Your work is charming.”
He felt her breath lightly on his cheek:
“It’s all Frank Donnell: I wouldn’t know what to do. He tells me and shows me. I try to comprehend. I do exactly what he tells me.”
“If you weren’t a born actress, even Frank Donnell couldn’t do anything with you. It’s you, Eris. You’re intelligent; you’re lovely to look at. I can’t see why your future isn’t in your own hands.”
“I’m simply crazy to talk to you about it. Could I?” she whispered excitedly.
“Of course,” he said, much flattered.
“I’ve wanted to for so long. There are so many things, Mr. Annan—and you could tell me why.”
Still the same, wistful cry, “Will you tell me why?”—and he remembered it, now, guiltily, sorry for his long neglect.