Every day he wrote a morning and an evening letter to Eris. And no doubt it was her letters to him that were feeding him fat.
Sometimes Coltfoot dropped in to lounge in an arm-chair and smoke his pipe and lazily observe the younger man, flagrante delicto with his brazen Muse.
And once Rosalind coolly invaded his threshold, announced with a sniff by the Starched One.
Rosalind wanted a cocktail and lunch. She sat on the edge of Annan’s writing table, swinging one trim foot, interrupting breezily when it suited her, or satisfying her capricious curiosity with his inky copy.
“Not so bad,” she drawled, shuffling a dozen unnumbered sheets together and tossing them under his nose. “Come on, ducky, and talk to me ere we feast and revel.”
“I’m going to give you your lunch when it’s ready. Until then I want to work. Run away and play, Linda——”
“Play nothing! We’re closed for the summer. Mom’s gone to the mountains and I’m queen of the flat. I sleep most of the time. Lay off, ducky, and converse with your little lonely Linda——”
“Wait a second, will you——” he protested. “Let my papers alone——”
“No, not a second will I wait—not a heart-throb! Regardez-moi, beau jeune homme. Ayez pitié de moi——”
She leaned over, patted his crisp hair, joggled his pen, gave a fillip to his nose.