“Am I real because I am beautiful, Mike?” drawled Rosalind, “or beautiful because I am real?”
So these three parted with the light jest of Rosalind floating between them in the sunshine.
But Annan went on, a trifle out of countenance, to keep a rendezvous with Eris at the Ritz.
At luncheon he said abruptly: “The stuff I do, Eris—you know I’d like your opinion—I mean while I’m doing it.... Or rather, I’d like to talk over the story with you, first, before I begin it.”
The girl looked up over her peach-ice. Her eyes were very clear and still.
“What I want,” he explained, “is a perfectly fresh eye—a fresh mind and a—a bystander’s point of view.... Not that I don’t most deeply respect you as an artist——”
“It would make me very happy,” she said, “to have your confidence in such things.”
“Well, I have a lot of confidence in your judgment. I’d like to consult you.... Perhaps—I don’t know—no man does know when his nose is too close to his work—but I’m rather afraid I’ve been getting away from things—facts—”
Her eyes grew tenderly humorous: “Whatever you get away from, Barry, you can’t ever get away from me. I’m the Nemesis called in to chasten you and clip those irresponsible wings.... I know a little about wings. I used to dream of them. Do you remember I once told you?”