He heard of her occasionally when he encountered Rosalind, who corresponded with Betsy.
Eris was being favourably discussed on the Coast.
In March a Betsy Blythe film was shown at The Looking Glass,—following that first film, parts of which he had seen the previous autumn in the projection room.
Once or twice he attempted to see the new picture—rather as a sort of obligation—but the place was crowded. Somehow time passed very swiftly for Annan; and when again he thought about it the picture was gone; and a new Betsy Blythe picture had replaced it,—playing to a crowded house as before;—and Annan went once, failed to get in, and let it slip his memory.
Not that his conscience did not meddle with his complacency at times. It did.
Her last three letters still remained unanswered.
But his novel was the vital, supreme thing which crowded out all else—even the several pretty and receptive girls whose stellar orbits had intersected his during the winter and early spring.
The joy of literary achievement was his chiefest pleasure; its perils his excitement, its fatigue the principal sleep-inducer that sent him at last to a tardy pillow.
Coltfoot read a typed copy.