So intimate, so part of her seemed everything that even his roses appeared intruders here in the rosy demi-dusk where sun-rays barred door and window of her sanctuary with barriers of crimson fire.
The evening paper had slipped to the floor. His speculative eyes, remote, were fixed on the red rods of waning light: he sat upright, unstirring, in the attitude of one who hears without listening, but awaits the unheard.
She came up the stairs, running lightly; flung open the door ajar, greeted him with a little gasp of happy, breathless recognition.
When she could explain at her ease: “Frank Donnell is patching in and re-taking with me before Mr. Creevy begins. To-morrow we finish, and the day after—” she laughed excitedly, “—I begin with my own company!”
“Wonderful!” he admitted; “I hope you’ll be as happy and as fortunate with your new director, Eris.”
“I hope so. I’m very fond of Mr. Donnell——” She pulled off her blue turban, glanced over her shoulder into the mirror, turned and looked happily at Annan. Then her smile faded. “Aren’t you well?” she asked.
“Certainly I am. Why?”
“I thought—you seemed thin—a trifle tired——”