She came when the month was nearly gone, warning him by wire of her train, evidently not expecting him to meet it, for she asked him to come to Jane Street for dinner at seven.
He never had gone to the train to meet Eris,—had never even thought of doing it. He thought of it now and wondered why he never before had done so.
By telephone he ordered flowers to be sent to Jane Street; and, a few minutes before six, he walked into the Grand Central Station and was directed to the exit where the incoming train was already signalled.
Outside the ropes, where people had gathered to welcome arriving friends, Annan encountered Albert Smull. As usual they shook hands. Smull wore his habitual and sanguine smile. His features had grown into it.
“Saw your good aunt at Newport, Friday,” he said, “but I seldom see you anywhere these days, Annan.”
“I don’t go about. How is it at Newport?”
“Fine weather——” Through the open gates the train glided into view. “Thought I’d come down and see how our picture people are looking after their tour on location,” said Smull. “You know some of them, Annan—you’ve met our clever little Eris?”
Annan turned and deliberately looked him over from his ruddy jowls to the polished tan shoes.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I’ve known Miss Odell for some time. I’m here to meet her.”
Smull’s sanguine face slowly took on a heavier red but the set smile remained.