“Why, yes, she’s here somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Probably where the men are thickest,” drawled Rosalind. “If you see a large crowd,—and a burgundy flush,—that’s the suitors of Eris,—and Albert Smull; and you’ll find Eris in the centre of it all.”
Annan laughed and strolled on. For Smull he had no enthusiasm. As for Eris, when he thought of her he felt cordially toward her. But there was now an uneasy and increasing sense of his own neglect to subdue any spontaneous pleasure in meeting her. It annoyed him to feel that he had been guilty of neglect. Until that moment he had not felt any particular shortcoming.
A girl he knew came drifting out of the throng—one of his many and meaningless affinities. They always were glad to see him after the storm and stress of the verbal love affair. So she drifted away in his arms—one of the recent steps—picked up by him without effort—and they danced the thing out.
Some man took her off. But there were others—plenty—all sorts. He danced enough to amuse him, thinking most of the time about his new story, and now and then of Eris.
Several times the ruddy features of Smull cut his rather hazy line of vision; but he didn’t discover anybody resembling Eris in the vicinity.
He had handed his latest partner over to Frank Donnell, and had swung on his heel to avoid a large group of people. And at that moment he saw Eris.
The sheer beauty of the girl startled him, and it was an appreciable moment before he realised that her grey eyes were encountering his.
Annan seldom reddened. He did now. He was not certain, either, but that she was administering a cut direct, because there was no recognition in the grey eyes, no smile.