1

"I don't ask you to say it's a good play," Eric observed to Barbara, as they rumbled slowly home from the O'Ranes' supper-party, "but is it less bad than the other?"

Any natural diffidence had evaporated before the memory of the darkened theatre, the insistent calls of "Author," his effort—while waiting for the applause to die down—to distinguish faces in the stalls, the renewed clapping at his speech's end, the levÉe in their box and the triumphant supper.

"I'm too happy to be teased, Eric," she answered, nestling to his side. "It isn't the great play that you're going to write some day, when you've learned…and suffered; you still get your women out of rag-books and toy-shops; but it's very clever, it's a great success and it's made you happy. That's what matters. Who was the man in the box that you called 'sir'?"

"I call most men 'sir,' if they're older than I am."

"He was with a girl in a grey dress and some rather good pearls."

Eric thought for a moment and looked at her in some surprise.

"That was Colonel Waring—Jack's father. The girl was Jack's sister Agnes."

Barbara did not answer for a moment.

"I thought it was him at first," she whispered.

Since the night of Barbara's confession, Jack's name had never been mentioned. If he were indeed killed, her memory of him would gradually wither and die; and it was almost impossible to discuss him without taking sides and indulging in moral judgements. The Warings had exhausted every means of getting news and would soon be forced to presume his death; perhaps they had already done so, but Eric was avoiding Red Roofs since his discovery that he did not want to marry Agnes. Amid the turmoil of greetings and congratulations, he had found time to feel embarrassed by her presence in the box; until Barbara took the light and colour out of all other women, Agnes had satisfied every demand. He was embarrassed, too, by seeing the two girls face to face, watching, measuring and unobtrusively speculating about each other, as women always did; if there were room for moral judgements, Barbara had no defence against Jack Waring's sister.

"She gave me that glass horse-shoe for luck the night my first play was produced," said Eric irrelevantly.

"And Jack gave me the counterpart," Barbara sighed. "That's why I wanted yours to replace it. Instead of which I only broke yours."

"Well, you haven't broken my luck, as you feared."

Her shoulder, pressing against his, communicated a shudder. Though three months had passed without news of Jack, Barbara could not feel secure even when she was alone with Eric.

"Don't boast. You may yet come to curse the day when we met, you may find I've spoiled your life and broken your luck."

"Luck?" Eric laughed a little scornfully. The success of the "Bomb-Shell" ensured that, if he never wrote another line, he would at least not starve. "When are we going to meet again, Babs?"

Looking out of the window, she saw that their cab was opposite the Ritz and that she had three hundred yards more of him.

"Does it matter?" she asked. "If you're so independent of me?"

"I can live without peach-brandy, but I like it. If you'll dine with me, I'll give you some—and all the food you most like. I owe the O'Ranes a dinner——"

"Oh, we won't have any one else!" she interrupted. Her use of the plural lost none of its charm by familiarity. "I'll come on Friday, if you like."

"On Friday old Ettrick is giving a dinner in my honour at the club. What about Monday? But I shan't let you come alone; as a matter of fact, I've invited the O'Ranes for that night."

"You don't like being alone with me?"

"I'm thinking solely of what would be said."

Barbara pouted and sat silent until she could launch an ultimatum as the cab stopped at her door. The success of his first night was making Eric masterful; and she wanted to test her power.

"If I can't dine with you in the way I like…" she began fretfully. "You only want to shew me off to the O'Ranes.…"

Eric forgave the petulance because he could see that she was tired. But he was tired too.…

"If you don't care about the O'Ranes, I'll see if I can get some one else some other time," he said. "It wouldn't do for you to dine with me alone."

"I believe you're in love with Sonia," she rejoined ill-humouredly.

"What nonsense! … Good-night, Babs. Thanks so much for coming."

On reaching home, he wrote to invite Mrs. Shelley for Monday. If Barbara rang him up in the morning, her repentance would be too late; he had only four arm-chairs in the dining-room.

There was no call from Barbara in the morning, neither note nor meeting throughout the day and no call at night. Such a thing had never happened before; there might be some occult cause of offence; his experience of Barbara taught Eric that she would cease to sulk when she wanted him; it was his experience of all women that none repaid a man the trouble of trying to understand her moods. Thursday was like Wednesday (and he knew that she was not returning to Crawleigh until Saturday); Friday was like Thursday—until the evening, when he nervously entered the Thespian Club as guest of honour. The hall-porter projected himself through the window of his box and handed Eric a note.

"All success, dear Eric," he read. "I wish I could be there to hear you. I shall ring you up to-night, and you must tell me all about it. Imagine I'm sitting by you, darling, and don't let the speech disappoint me. B."

He thrust the note into his pocket, as Lord Ettrick came forward to greet him. Congratulations and badinage broke out on all sides; he shook hands until his arm ached and he gave up trying to count the numbers; it was enough that he could recognize one face out of three.…

"You seem to have mobilized half the club," Eric commented, looking with gratification at the growing half-circle by the fire.

"You're between Gaisford and me," said Ettrick, detaching him for a cocktail and cigarette at the far end of the room. "I'm proposing your health, you'll have to reply; and that'll be all the speeches, unless we sit late. Manders has promised to come as soon as he can get away from the theatre, and that may start the ball again. By the way, is it official yet? I haven't seen any announcement."

"Is what official?"

"I heard that you were engaged."

Eric's composure poured out of him, and he felt his mouth growing loose.

"Where did you hear that?" he asked with an effort.

"Oh, scores of people have told me. I came to your box rather late the other night, but I was told that the lady in question had been inviting every one to congratulate you both."

For a moment Eric frowned in perplexity; then his face lightened.

"That was on account of the play," he explained. "She came to one or two of the rehearsals, and, on the strength of that, it was always 'our play.'…I say, have you really heard that from many people? She's a very great friend of mine, and I shouldn't like to feel that our names were being coupled."

Lord Ettrick wrinkled his forehead in surprise and shook his head with a grim smile.

"Then, my young friend, if that's your ambition, you're not going the right way about it. I'm too busy by day to go out much at night, but any time during the last month or two…You know how people talk; and you're both of you pretty well known." Eric's look of mortification roused him to a more conciliatory tone. "It's done now, and, if it doesn't blow over, you'll only have yourself to thank. I wouldn't have mentioned the subject, if I thought it was going to spoil your dinner. But I very nearly congratulated you publicly.… Let's see if we're all here."

They returned to the fire, and Ettrick called the roll. Throughout dinner, when Eric ought to have been thinking over his speech, he sat dazed by the warning and his own blindness. Six weeks before, Lady Maitland was proclaiming that he and Barbara were in love with each other; now a dry stick of a law lord, retiring and uninterested in gossip, heard of their engagement from a dozen different mouths and was an inch removed from congratulating him before half the club. Eric might assume that other eyes had observed him calling for her, shopping with her; it was accepted that, when they dined in the same house, he should always take her home; it was almost accepted that one could not be invited to dine without the other.…

It hardly lay in his mouth to tell Barbara that she must not compromise herself.

A waiter entered with a telegram for Lord Ettrick, which he read and handed to Eric.

"Regret confined bed severe chill all success to dinner and congratulations and best wishes to our distinguished young friend."

It was signed by the one absentee, whose chair still stood empty on the opposite side. Eric suddenly remembered Barbara's note: "Imagine I'm sitting by you, darling." As he read it, he wished that he could have brought her there; in the morning-room he had wished—no, he had thought how proud he would have been to tell Lord Ettrick that the story was true. If he could see her now in the empty chair, a rose behind one ear, a silk shawl broidered with grey birds in flight, as on the evening when they first met.…

But she would hardly come dressed as Carmen. And, however she arrayed herself, the Thespian Club would not admit her.…

"Well, have you thought out your speech?" asked Lord Ettrick.

"I've been thinking about what you said before dinner," Eric answered.

"Don't take it too seriously. You know how people talk."

"Yes, but I don't want them to talk like that about her! She's the best friend I've got."

He hesitated in surprise at his own vehemence.

"Have you observed one thing?" Lord Ettrick enquired after a pause. "Neither of us has mentioned the lady's name."

"Well——"

"Exactly. Well, if it wasn't necessary for me, who after all don't go about very much—But you needn't take it to heart."

"Oh, I'm not," said Eric carelessly. "And, as you said, I shall only have myself to blame if the story's not scotched here and now."

"I'll propose the King's health now," said Lord Ettrick, "and then we can have something to smoke."

2

By the simple standard of applause, Eric achieved a success. Abandoning his prepared speech, he followed Lord Ettrick's lead, picked up his cues and surrendered himself to the moment. It was something of a triumph to amuse others when he was so little amused himself.

"Not nearly long enough," said Dr. Gaisford, as Eric looked furtively at the watch on his wrist. He was wondering how soon he could go home and telephone to Barbara.

"Shall we go upstairs or sit here?" asked Lord Ettrick. "Manders ought to be with us in another half-hour."

Eric remembered with consternation that he would be expected to stay at least until midnight. There was no escaping it. Five and thirty men, his friends and entertainers, were preparing for a long, happy session; their chairs were turned at comfortable angles, they had shuffled and sorted themselves into congenial groups, each was at the earliest stage of a long cigar, and they waited on him in turn like an endless series of deputations.

"I've discussed the nightly takings of a theatre with Ettrick," he whispered, when Manders arrived at half-past eleven as vigorous and high-spirited as if he had just got out of bed; "the Dardanelles expedition with Gaisford, the plays of Synge with George Oakleigh, 'The Bomb-Shell' with Vincent Grayle, memories of Jessie Farborough with Deganway, 'The Bomb-Shell' with Grierson, Ibsen with Harry Greenbank, and 'The Bomb-Shell' with Donald Butler. I'm worn out!"

"Stay a bit longer, boy," Manders begged. "I've only just come."

When at last he escaped, there was no taxi to be had, though Eric told a waiter to keep the first that drove up. He covered half of the way to Ryder Street at a run, threw himself on his bed and asked for the familiar number in Berkeley Square.

After a long interval a sleepy voice said: "Yes? My dear, you are late! I've rung you up again and again. I—Eric, I was afraid you were angry with me for sulking."

"I say, Babs!" He began earnestly and had no idea how to go on. "Angry with you? Don't be so ridiculous! I got a very sweet note from you to-night. Thank you. And I think the speech went down all right. I say, Babs.…"

"You're out of breath, sweetheart."

"I came home in rather a hurry. Can you see me some time? I suppose you're going to Crawleigh to-morrow—That's no good. Can you dine with me on Tuesday?"

"I wanted you to come here on Tuesday."

"You never said anything about it. Will you be alone?"

"I'm afraid not. Eric, will you be honourable? It's my half-birthday; I always have two a year. I didn't tell you, because I was afraid you'd rush out and buy me a present. And I couldn't bear to receive anything more from you. But will you come without a present? I've got a little party."

"I should love it. Thank you, Babs. But I want to see you alone."

She was silent for several moments.

"You're very mysterious, darling," she said at last.

"I heard something to-night that rather upset me——"

"About Jack?"

A thrill of expectation had come into her voice.

"Oh, no! It's one of those things that wouldn't matter if we weren't all congenital idiots."

"It's not something I've done?"

"My dear child, no!"

"Won't you tell me what it is?"

"I'd rather not on the telephone. I may get a moment on Tuesday; if not, can you dine with me here the next night?"

"Alone?" Her laugh mocked him without malice. "I insist on bringing my kitten."

He joined in the laugh.

"You may bring the kitten. I know I'm asking you to do something that I disapprove of, but I'm rather worried and I must see you alone."

For three days he explored cautiously to discover how far the Ettrick story had spread. Saturday brought him a heavy bundle of news-cuttings; but they were all concerned with "The Bomb-Shell." No one wrote to him, no one confronted him with a blunt question, though Ettrick had protested that the story was common property. When Eric walked to Berkeley Square for the birthday party, he was embarrassed for the first time in shaking hands with Lord Crawleigh; sooner or later he would be summoned to a very unpleasant interview.

It was obvious at a glance that no one would have private conversation with Barbara that night. She stood in the drawing-room at the apex of a triangle with a compact row of parents behind and, supporting them, a longer row of silent, embarrassed brothers; cousins in every degree described a circle round the triangle, and in a wider, looser circle stood people who knew Eric and needed diplomatic handling to hide his forgetfulness of them.

"My aunt's parties are like a Derby Day crowd," panted Amy Loring, as an unseen pianist began to play and they were squeezed into the embrasure of a window. "I've not had time to see who's here yet. Babs, of course, looks divine."

"She looks well in anything," Eric answered. It was dangerous to praise her even to her own cousin lest one more voice should rise to proclaim that he was in love with her.

"You're a great friend of hers, aren't you?" Amy asked. "Some one told me at tea to-day——"

Eric became rigid, and she stopped.

"Yes?"

"My dear Mr. Lane, you don't even know what I was going to say!"

"I think I do."

"Then you aren't very complimentary to Babs."

"I feel a certain responsibility towards her."

"You mustn't mind too much what people say.… You know George Oakleigh? Well, in the dark ages, when I came out, he and I were very great friends; we always have been; I've known him all my life, and his cousin married my poor brother.… Need I say that quite a number of people …? If they'd troubled to think for a moment, they might have remembered that I was a Catholic, but a little thing like that never occurs to them.… D'you mind my talking to you like this?" she asked with a smile that sweetened the abruptness of her tone. "When I introduced the subject, you froze up so——"

"Can't you understand?" he interrupted. "I'm very fond indeed of Barbara, but if people talk like this…"

"Don't mind what people say, Mr. Lane.… I feel we—all the family—owe you such an enormous debt. No one knows what was the matter with Babs, but my aunt was really afraid we might lose her. Of course, she'd led rather a wild and wearing life since she was a child; suddenly she collapsed. I do feel that you've saved her life, you know; she's the old, vital, irresistible Babs once more—except that you've taught her to take care of herself."

"The position is a little awkward. If people talk, if Lord Crawleigh——"

"I think he quite likes you," Amy interrupted.

Eric bowed and pretended for a moment to listen to the music. It was common knowledge that Barbara's fortune was forfeit on the day when she married any one but a Catholic; if he had ever contemplated marrying her, the fees from the "Divorce" and "The Bomb-Shell" would not keep them for six months. He wondered whether Amy Loring's embassage had been inspired.

"I always feel that Lord Crawleigh condemned the world and then allowed it to continue existing on day-to-day reprieves," he said.

"That's rather my uncle's manner. He hasn't insulted you yet? He will."

"He's only seen me once by daylight. I fancy he thinks I'm one of the footmen. If I came to him in any other capacity…The industrious ink-slinger, you know——"

Amy tossed her head impatiently.

"I don't know whether you're a genius or not, because I'm not clever about books and things. But you've made an enormous name for yourself, you've a big career before you; and, so long as a man's a gentleman—by which I don't mean what most people do,—I wouldn't let anything stand in the way—except religion, of course. And I'm afraid that doesn't count very much with Babs." She lapsed into silence, as though she had already said too much. "And I know I'm right," she added at length.

"I daresay you are.… You see, I've never regarded Barbara as anything but a wonderful friend. We casually dropped into an extraordinary intimacy——"

"It's been too easy, too casual!" she cried. "You've taken it as a matter of course. Neither of you appreciate what you are to the other—I'm simply speaking from my impression; Babs hasn't said anything, naturally, and I've hardly had two words with you until to-night——; if it had been less easy——"

"If your uncle had forbidden me the house?" he suggested.

"If either of you were in danger of losing the other…I wonder what you think of me, talking like this?"

"I'm grateful."

The music came to an end, and Gerald Deganway gave imitations of the various ministers whom he had served as private secretary. Eric looked across the room and identified Barbara leaning against the piano. She was better, happier; and he had grown to be very fond of her. So long as they met daily without marrying, he shirked deciding whether he wanted to marry her. It would be pleasant to drift; but, when the cloud of gossip and speculation penetrated into the heart of the Crawleighs' own home, a man of honour could not shirk the decision any longer. He could ask Barbara to marry him; or her father could inspire a paragraph in the press, admitting the rumour in order to contradict it. Failing that, he would have to say good-bye to her, though she had become so much a habit as almost to be part of his life.…

The imitations were succeeded by more music, and Eric threaded his way to the piano where Carstairs and Oakleigh were begging Barbara to sing.

"Honestly, I've no voice to-night," he heard her say.

As he drew near, she seemed to feel his presence and turned with a quick smile.

"Can't you manage one?" he asked.

"Well, perhaps one, if you want me to. What shall it be?"

"That thing out of 'Butterfly,'" Eric suggested.

"I'll sing it, if you like."

As Eric sought a chair, Oakleigh looked at him, stroked his chin, sighed gently and withdrew to the bridge-room as though he could not face seeing them together.

3

"I want you to take this seriously," said Eric, when Barbara arrived for dinner. "Don't try to laugh it off by saying I'm conventional; I know I am. The fact is, people are beginning to talk about us. I want to discuss what's to be done."

His earnestness kept Barbara from smiling, and, as he was worried and ill at ease, she beckoned him to a place by her side on the sofa.

"Do you find it so intolerable to have your name joined with mine?" she asked a little wearily.

He looked at her in perplexity. Instead of being embarrassed herself or feeling gratitude that he was embarrassed for her reputation, she spoke as though the gossipers had conferred a favour upon him.

"If the thing were true, it would be another matter altogether. Subject to your parents' approval, I think the best thing would be to get a paragraph into the papers, saying that there's no foundation for the rumour."

"But the rumour hasn't got into the papers yet," she objected.

"I'm meeting it on every hand."

"But, if I don't mind, why should you?" she asked.

"Well, I do mind. I don't like you to be 'talked about.' And I don't care to have people saying that I'm getting you 'talked about,'" he added with heat. "You must try to look at this from a man's point of view. If you were my sister, and some man who had no intention of marrying you, some man whom you had no intention of marrying——"

"You've never asked me," she interrupted.

Eric was shocked into silence. When he was fighting for her reputation, she was once more the coquette as he remembered her at their first meeting.

"I've thought this over, Babs, from every point of view," he went on, with an effort keeping his temper under her look of slightly bored amusement. "There are three ways out of the difficulty; the first is what certain people think the most obvious—that we should make the story true; the second is that we should contradict it publicly—it's the easiest thing in the world to do—and the third is that we should give up seeing each other."

He stood up with the pretence of warming his hands and fidgeted restlessly by the fire. Barbara had lost her expression of amusement and was honestly puzzled that he should make so great a pother about a piece of idle gossip.

They remained without speaking until a maid entered to announce dinner.

"I'm sorry you've been worried," she said gently. "For once it really wasn't my fault.… I suppose I'm hardened to this sort of thing. Why don't you just not worry? And give me dinner, because I'm very hungry."

"I can't leave it like that," said Eric, as he accompanied her to the dining-room. "A plain statement in the press——"

"It would simply draw attention to it."

"Well, that's one of the solutions ruled out."

"And I'm left with the choice of marrying you—you haven't asked me yet!—or saying good-bye? There is another alternative, Eric: and that is to shew you're too sensible to mind what silly people say about you."

Eric shook his head obstinately.

"No good, I'm afraid."

"Well, try to think of something else," she sighed. "Don't spoil our evening, sweetheart."

The intermittent presence of the maid, rather than any state of mental satisfaction in Eric, kept the conversation peaceful. He almost forgot the annoyances of the last week in watching Barbara's delighted enjoyment of a new experience so trivial as dining with him for the first time in his own flat. Nothing escaped her curious notice—a wine that he gave her to try with the scallops, the Lashmar chrysanthemums in a flat, blue-glass bowl, the unaging pleasure of an invisibly lighted room, Australian passion-fruit at dessert, a new artist's proof.…

"You're really like a child at a pantomime, Babs," he laughed, when they were alone.

She rose slowly and bent over him, touching his forehead with her lips and then kneeling beside his chair.

"I'm interested in everything!" she cried. "I love new experiences! At least, I did. I loved meeting new people, hearing new things—the world was so wonderful. And then—I never understood why I went on living.… You made life wonderful for me again. The first night we met, when I came here.… You were quite right, Eric, I was a fool.… But somehow I wasn't afraid. I knew you'd put your hand in the fire for me."

He stroked her head and gave a sudden shiver. No one would ever know what path he might have chosen that night out of the maze of his disordered emotions.

"In those days you were nothing to me," he murmured.

"But you put all women on pedestals.… Eric, will you believe me if I say that I've tried to live up to your conception of me?"

"But do you know what my conception of you is?"

"Something a thousand miles higher than I can ever climb! When I'm restless, lonely, I think of our love, your wonderful devotion—like a mother's to her child…and my love for you. Give me your cigarette, Eric."

Before he could see what she was doing, the glowing end had been pressed against her hand until it blackened and died. He saw her eyes shut and her lip whitening as she bit it. Her body swayed and fell forward before the crumpled cigarette dropped on to the carpet.

"You little—Babs, what's the matter with you?"

She opened her eyes, breathing quickly and holding out her hand to shew a vermilion ring with a leprous-white centre.

"I'd put my hand in the fire for you!" she panted.

"You little fool!" He was filled with a desire to hurt her for having hurt herself. "Look here, Barbara.…"

But she had risen to her feet and was pressing the wounded hand to her lips.

"You don't know how it hurt!" she cried with a tremble in her voice.

"What good, precisely, d'you think you've done?" he asked.

She snatched a spill from the mantel-piece and thrust it between the bars of the fire.

"If you want it again——!"

Eric dragged her upright with one arm and rang the bell.

"We'll have coffee in the smoking-room," he said. "Barbara, what's the matter with you?"

She laughed almost hysterically.

"I feel I'm fighting for my life! That was to shew you I'd do anything in the world you asked me to! And you talk about our giving up meeting … like giving up smoking!"

Eric drew a chair to the fire and lighted her cigarette in silence. Only a fool would break that silence for twenty-four hours.…

"A bit rash that, isn't it?" he asked, as he cut his cigar.

"You won't ask me anything that I don't want you to," she answered. "And you know there are some things I can't give you."

Coffee was brought in, and he offered her sugar, knowing well—if he had been able to collect himself—that she never took it. Her cigarette went out and required another match. A pile of five books, still in their wrappers, absorbed her.

It was only half-past ten when she forced a yawn and asked him to get her a taxi. He collected a coat and hat from the hall and arranged his muffler elaborately with his back to her.

"Returning to the other thing," he began slowly. "We've not exactly disposed of it, have we?"

"I thought we were going to leave it alone," she answered timidly.

"That's out of the question." He banged open his opera hat and squeezed it shut again. "Why won't you have a simple contradiction in the press?" he pleaded.

"I don't want it. Isn't that enough?"

"Certainly. But…I don't want to say good-bye, if I can help it."

Barbara looked at him slowly and carefully; she was utterly at fault.

"It's for you to decide," she said.

"There doesn't seem to be any alternative."

She stood up and wrapped a lace scarf round her throat. As he helped her into her cloak, she looked reflectively round the room. Save that the windows were closed to shut out the December fog, save that there were chrysanthemums in place of roses, nothing had changed since the night when she forced her way in and sipped soda-water from a heavy goblet and broke the glass horseshoe and laughed and talked and suddenly cried.…

As he watched, her bones seemed to bend like soft wax, and she sank on to the sofa, burying her face in her arms and sobbing convulsively. Eric stood motionless by the fire, because he could not trust himself to move. Her shoulders, which he had always admired for their line and wonderful whiteness, rose in quick jerks and subsided with a quiver; she shook with the abandonment of a bird in its death-spasm.

"Barbara!"

"Oh, can't I even cry?" she moaned.

"Darling, you break my heart when you go on like this!" He found himself kneeling on the floor with his arm round her shoulder and drawing her head back until he could kiss her wet cheek. "If you'll shew me any other way out of it——"

"Why can't you let it go on?" she wailed.

"I can't; I suppose I love you too much."

"Too much to give me the one thing—Eric, you're not going to turn me away?"

"I'm not going to take risks with your reputation."

"But it would be just the same! If you put your denial into the paper, people would still go on talking as long as we went on meeting! Does it matter? Do you mind it so much, Eric? Oh, my dear, I can't afford to lose you!"

She fell away from him, and he walked back to the fire. This, then, was the moment that came to every man once—the moment that he forced into the lives of his puppets once a play.

"Barbara!"

She was still shaken with sobs.

"Barbara, are you listening? You said you'd put your hand in the fire for me. Well, did you mean that?"

He snapped the question at her, and she was galvanized to drag herself upright on the sofa.

"Yes, I said that."

"You'll do anything I ask?"

"Yes." From the slow-drawn answer he knew that more was coming. "I've told you everything. I don't belong to myself.… There's one thing that—that I don't think you're going to ask me."

"Why not?"

"Because you know I trust you. I always have. I always shall. Oh, God forgive me for the way I've treated you! But it's your fault. Whatever I did, I should know that I could always trust you and that in time you'd understand!" A single sob escaped her, and she steadied herself like a man stopping short at the edge of a precipice. "You've quite made up your mind?…I must go now. Will you do something for me?"

"What is it?"

"Won't you trust me? I don't want you to see me home, that's all. It'll remind me of too much. Good-bye, Eric. I used to think I didn't believe in God, but somebody's got to reward you, and I can't. Kiss me—quickly, or I shall start crying again. Good-bye, Eric! Oh, oh—my God!"

She stumbled to the door and twisted blindly at the handle. It was open before he could help her. A grey wedge of fog thrust itself past her as she hurried out of the hall.

"You're not going home alone!" he cried.

Half-way down the first flight of stairs she turned with arms outstretched like a figure nailed to a cross.

"My darling; it's the last thing I shall ever ask you!"

4

Eric slept little that night. From eleven till two he walked up and down his smoking-room, occasionally throwing himself into a chair for very exhaustion, only to jump up restlessly and resume his aimless pacing. The fingers of his right hand were yellow from the cigarettes that he was always lighting and throwing away; the rest of him became stiff and chilled as the fire died down. "As if I'd murdered her.…" The phrase, self-coined, repeated itself in his brain even when he was not thinking of the shaken, nerveless body which he had tried to revive.

His eyes turned again and again to the telephone. It would take Barbara ten minutes to walk home, perhaps twenty in the fog; (he was frightened by the thought of her being alone). By then she might have found something to suggest.… The telephone could not be more silent if she were in very truth dead. He sat down at his writing-table and addressed an envelope to her, but he had nothing to put inside it.

"As if I'd murdered her." It made it no easier that Barbara had begged him not to cast her off; wives sometimes begged men to run away with them. Until she drove the burning cigarette-end into her hand, crying out that she was fighting for her life, he had not understood her passionate need of him; yet, when her need was most passionate, there was something in her life to which she would subordinate him.… The proposal had been checked on his lips.

The telephone was poignantly silent. She would never ring him up again to tell him her plans for the day, never ramble again through shops and exhibitions, never again ring him up to bid him good-night. The Thursday dinner, the Friday luncheon, their notes at the week-end, the sweet pride of possession, her glorious companionship in his cloistered life were over. For no one else had he ever taken trouble; now he was thrown back on an insufficient self. To-morrow or the next day she might have a headache; never again would she give him a tired smile and say, "Won't you charm the pain away?"

"As if I'd murdered her." Eric crossed the hall to his bedroom. The front door was still open, and on the mat lay Barbara's scarf. He was glad of an excuse to postpone undressing and spent five minutes lovingly packing it in tissue paper for his secretary to carry round. It would be savagery not to write a note.…

He rose after four hours' sleepless tossing and distracted himself by drawing cheques until the post was delivered. There were many letters, but none from Barbara. He read the Times, dictated to his secretary, handed her the parcel for Berkeley Square and climbed uneasily out of bed. Though he dawdled over his dressing, there was no telephone call to reward him; and, as the Crawleighs were spending Christmas in London, he would not meet her in the train.

Half-way to Winchester he grew drowsy and fancied himself in his dreams once more kneeling on the floor beside the sofa, with his arms round Barbara's shoulders. "As if I'd murdered her." His lips were moving, as he awoke, and he wondered whether the haunting refrain had escaped him.

His sister was waiting for him at Winchester, and he greeted her with a confused affection that struggled to compensate for the pain which he had brought to Barbara.

"We were afraid you might be too much in request to come down here," said Sybil. "Eric, I've been invited to go to a dance in London next week; I suppose you wouldn't like to chaperon me? Mother does so hate leaving the country even for one night."

"Will it be very late? I can't do any work next day, if I don't get a little sleep. As a matter of fact, haven't chaperons ceased to exist?"

"I don't know. I was invited by a man I met at the Warings. He's quite a nice creature, but I can't dine and go even to a charity ball and dance with him all night absolutely on my own. Mother wouldn't let me, even if I wanted to."

Eric shrank from the prospect of sleepless hours in an overheated room.

"It's surprising what things are done nowadays," he said without committing himself.

"Surprising, yes. But we're rather behind the times in Lashmar. You wouldn't like me to go alone, would you?"

"Certainly not!" If people began gossiping about Sybil and her nameless admirer as they gossiped about Barbara and himself, he would very soon drop the young man a plain hint. And he could never make Barbara see that she wanted him to behave as he would allow no one to behave to his own sister.… "I'll come if I'm not already booked up."

As he entered the Mill-House, Eric tried to lose himself in the atmosphere of a place where he had spent Christmas for a quarter of a century. His last night in London haunted him, and it was only by trying to console his mother for the absence of her two younger boys that he could avoid thinking of Barbara. There was a busy exchange of presents after dinner, and next day he accompanied his parents to church, as he had done for five and twenty years, finding peace and a welcome in the worm-eaten pew, the cobwebbed window, the top-heavy decorations and the familiar musty books. The state prayers were invoked therein on behalf of "Victoria, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, the Princess of Wales and all the Royal Family." And there was an old hymnal with a loose binding; for years Eric had slipped one of the Waverley Novels into its cover to read during the sermon.… To-day he listened no more to the sermon than in other years; he wondered what Barbara was doing.…

After the carols they lingered in the churchyard to greet their friends. If only she would make up her mind that Jack was dead, there would be no need for this anguished parting; then, though he had never contemplated it until a week before, he could ask Barbara to marry him. As yet, though he wanted her, he had still to find whether he could be content without her; before marrying, she must subordinate obligation, memory and conscience to her need of him.… The Warings were waiting at the lych-gate, and he asked Agnes whether she had any news of Jack.

"I'll let you know when we have," she answered, shaking her head. "It's nearly six months now.… I'm just keeping my mind a blank."

They turned out of the churchyard and walked in silence towards Lashmar village. For ten years they had always hurried ahead of their parents for a moment together; and, before anything else, Agnes always thanked him for her present. This year Eric had given her nothing; it was unfair to pretend that there was no change of feeling.…

"I suppose you're as busy as ever?" she asked abruptly. "The new play seems to be a great success."

"I think it's doing quite well," he assented. "I wish I'd seen more of you that night, Agnes."

"There was such a crowd of people; we only put our heads into the box to congratulate you. Eric, I'd never seen your friend Lady Barbara at close quarters before; she's—bewitching."

Without daring to look at her face, Eric tried to discover from Agnes' tone whether she had chosen or blundered on such a word.

"She varies," he said judicially. "That night—yes, she was looking her best then. Sometimes…she's not very strong, you know.…"

He broke off, thinking of their last night together. They walked as far as Lashmar Common without speaking, though he knew that his silence betrayed him.

At luncheon Sir Francis proposed the health of his absent sons, and the afternoon passed in lazy talk round the library fire. The smell of the pine logs filled Eric with old memories; he slipped on to a foot-stool and sat with his head resting against his mother's knees, drowsy and a little wistful. He wished that he could go back to a time when life was less complicated and he could still confide in her.

"Tired, old boy?" asked Lady Lane, as she stroked his head.

"No. Only thinking. I can just remember our first Christmas here; there was a party and a Christmas tree, and I retired to the terrace and had a stand-up fight with some young friend, and our nurses came and separated us. A long time ago, mother! Before Sybil was born."

The girl roused at sound of her name.

"You're getting frightfully old, Ricky. It's time you married and settled down."

"I've settled down without marrying. You can't do both, you know."

The drawl in his voice unconsciously irritated the girl.

"Marrying and shaking up is more in your line," she retorted. "You're too successful, too rich, too selfish, Ricky."

"My dear, I lead my life, and you lead yours. Why should either try to disturb the other?"

"Because you lead such a rotten life. Honestly, Ricky, don't you get sick of gadding about night and day with people who only condescend to know you because you're a fashion?"

He smiled lazily at the uncompromising vigour of her criticism.

"To begin with, I don't do it night and day——"

"Ricky, you simply live in your Lady Barbara's pocket. Lots of people have told me. If I were you, I wouldn't let her make a fool of me. After all, you are somebody. Is she going to marry you?"

"I haven't asked her. She's a great friend of mine——"

"H'm. Everybody asks me when you're going to be married. Honestly, they do, Ricky. Three people this week. That's why I say she's making a fool of you. I don't think you know how people are talking."

"Perhaps I do, but I didn't know it had spread as far as here," he sighed.

"Well, you oughtn't to do it; and she oughtn't either," Sybil declared.

Eric gazed long into the fire without answering. How on earth had they come to discuss Babs? He had been dreaming with wistful contentment of simpler, less embarrassed times when at this hour a red-faced nurse would enter and carry him, sleepily protesting, to bed. Sybil had somehow forced the conversation, they had argued—and his father and mother had listened without taking part, thereby ranging themselves on Sybil's side or at least admitting that she was telling them nothing new.… Sybil was a tigress for loyalty! Ever since she had decided that he was to marry Agnes, she would have mauled and clawed any other woman who got in the way. And when that woman trifled with the devotion of a Lane and made a fool of one of the sacred family…No sister ever imagined that a man could take care of himself. After all, who had suffered by his tragic intimacy with Barbara?

"As if I'd murdered her." What was Babs doing now?

He looked at his watch and pulled himself, stretching and yawning, to his feet.

"I shall go to sleep if I stay here," he said. "Is any one going to dress?"

Twenty minutes later, when he came out of his bath, Lady Lane was sitting in his bedroom.

"I didn't shew you Geoff's last letter," she said. "You'll see he says something about 'The Bomb-Shell'; one of his friends has been to see it and liked it very much."

Eric propped the letter against his looking-glass, as he began to dress.

"I say, have people down here really been marrying me off?" he asked.

Lady Lane's face, reflected in the mirror, was passive and incurious.

"There was some report in one of the papers, I believe," she explained. "I didn't see it myself."

He volunteered nothing, and his mother looked indifferently round the room, now exploring with her foot a shabby place in the carpet, now rising to hook a sagging length of curtain to its ring. She had come into his room to receive confidences and to help him; his moodiness did not invite congratulations and was troubling her.

"I wonder if I shall ever remember to bring some more shirts down here," he mused. "I've three, four, five that I'll give you for your bandage-class."

"I'll take them gratefully," she answered. There was a pause in which he pushed a drawer home, selected a handkerchief and turned off the light over his dressing-table; in another minute they would be downstairs, and the opportunity would be gone. She slipped her arm through his and walked to the door. "There's nothing worrying you, is there, Eric?"

"I'm afraid I've rather a faculty for letting things worry me," he laughed. "If one didn't always have to work against time, at high pressure——"

His mother was not deceived into thinking that work had anything to do with his mood.

"No new worries?" she suggested. "The last month or two…You're not looking well; that's why I asked. If you ever feel there's anything I can do…"

The subject was dismissed as she opened the door. She was glad that she had given him no opportunity of a denial, for Eric had always told her the truth, hitherto.

He went to bed early and fell asleep at once after the restlessness of the last two nights. When he felt his way back to wakefulness in the morning, there was a subconscious sense that something important had happened; a moment later he remembered with a pang that he and Barbara had said good-bye.

He jumped up and rang for his shaving-water, though it was not yet seven. He must find work to do, he must keep himself continuously occupied; otherwise his brain would go on grinding out that phrase "As if I'd murdered her."…

5

Half-way through the morning a belated postman splashed with expectant Christmas cheerfulness to the Mill-House and unburdened himself of a crushed and tattered load. Eric's share included an envelope addressed in an unknown writing and marked "Urgent," "By hand." His fingers trembled when he found a pencilled note from Barbara.

"Christmas Eve.

"My scarf has just arrived. Thank you for sending it; I'm sorry to have been so careless. And I'm afraid I DID catch cold without it. At least I'm in bed, and the doctor says he's going to keep me here. I want you, in spite of everything, to come and see me. Come this afternoon, Eric, before you go down to your people. Just for a moment. I do want to see you so badly. You won't disappoint me, will you? I'm ill, Eric, and so very lonely. Please, please come. Barbara."