His newest novel, scarcely begun, promised dazzlingly. He was eager, always, to get at it. That was a most excellent sign. He even preferred writing it to doing anything else. Another good sign.
Otherwise all was well with him, and going well.
His love affairs, always verbal ones, distracted him agreeably and were useful professionally. Easily, as always, he slipped out of one into another with no discomfort to himself and only a brief but deeper pang for the girl.
Few of these mildly amourous episodes resulted in anything except a rather more agreeable and care-free friendship,—as in the cases of Betsy Blythe and Rosalind Shore. Disillusioned they liked him better but in a different way.
Probably Eris would, too, when she returned from the Coast,—if ever she did return.
Thus, without effort, he reassured himself concerning her three unanswered letters. His was the gayest and most optimistic of consciences,—a little gem of altruism. Per se it functioned beautifully. He never meddled. It ran like a watch ticking cheerily.
But it never had had anything serious to deal with. How heavy a weight it might sustain there was no knowing.
In light marching order his conscience had guided him very nicely, so far. How would it steer him when it carried weight?
It was early in June that he encountered Coltfoot by chance. They had not met in months.