The light sobered Annan. He turned almost apprehensively to look at Eris.
Something radical happened to him as he met her grey eyes,—crystal-clear eyes, beautiful, unabashed.
“Good-bye,” he said in a voice that sounded odd in his own ears.
Once more he took her hand, and the contact stirred him to definite emotion. Had she been experienced she could have seen much to astonish and trouble her girl’s soul in this young man’s face.
“Good-bye,” she said with adorable frankness, “—and thank you—always—Mr. Annan.”
As he went away toward the corridor where Coltfoot stood talking to Rosalind, he began to realise that something had happened to him.
Rosalind, seeing him, crinkled her eyes and wrinkled her fascinating nose:
“Did you turn her head, Barry? Is that child to follow Betsy and myself? Everybody noticed you.”
He said, annoyed: “She wouldn’t consider that very humorous.”
Rosalind’s dark eyes widened lazily: “Did you suppose I meant it, Barry? You’re rather crude for a subtle novelist, aren’t you?”