1

Moral delinquency in England, if of sufficiently ancient lineage, grows venial with the years and, if carried out with adequate ruthlessness or at least success, may quickly find itself invested with grandeur. No one boasts of his own illegitimacy, but most men like it to be known that an ancestress, whose memory is kept green, once enjoyed royal favour. No man tells his guests that they are eating stolen food from stolen plate in a stolen house; but many will admit, without imposing a bond of secrecy, that their great-great-grandfathers went to India to seek their fortune and apparently found it. "He that goes out an insignificant boy in a few years returns a great Nabob," said Burke, without dwelling on the intermediate stages. They will admit almost as readily that their grandfather reluctantly parted with land to the end that railways might be built, or that their fathers ran the blockade and supplied the South and the slave-owners, hazardously and romantically, with munitions of war.

The Neave fortunes had their origin in the character and position of Lord Chancellor Crawleigh; and history has dealt faithfully with him. John, first baron, acquired the Abbey from a misguided supporter of the '15 and left it with sufficient means for its upkeep to his grandson William, the second baron and first viscount, who built on sure foundations. Common sense and a certain practical alertness in the halcyon days of the Enclosure Acts did nothing to diminish the patrimony of Charles, fourth baron, third viscount and first earl, though the estate came to be temporarily encumbered when the good fellowship of John, the second earl, won him the costly regard of the Regent. At a time when the House of Commons was pulling one of its long faces over a periodical schedule of the Prince's debts, a Garter became vacant; and His Royal Highness, with no other means of marking his affectionate gratitude, secured it for his friend with a further step to the coveted rank of marquess. Thereafter the public life of the family was characterized by honour and integrity; and the Garter, re-bestowed as soon as surrendered, became a habit. The second marquess held a sinecure under Lord Aberdeen; another flitted to and fro in shadowy retirement as a Lord-in-Waiting; a third, exploring the United States for the broadening of his mind, married an American wife.

The union infused so much new blood into the declining, short-lived stock that there seemed no limit to the energy and success of the heir. Charles, fifth marquess, was a member of parliament in his twenty-second year, an under-secretary when he was twenty-six and Governor-General of Canada before he was thirty-five. Thereafter, having got him abroad, succeeding governments vied with one another to keep him abroad. The vice-royalty of India followed almost automatically; he spent two years as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland to oblige his party leaders and was now in the full vigour of middle age with nothing to do. The House of Lords offered no opportunity to an incurably bad debater; and the radicals by destroying the constitution, bullying the king and playing with revolution had made it a place of arid pomp, whose futility took away something of a man's dignity every time that he went there. Nevertheless, once a viceroy, always a viceroy, as his daughter sometimes reminded him. Lord Crawleigh ruled Berkeley Square and Crawleigh Abbey as though he were still in India, as though, too, he were suppressing the Mutiny single-handed. "Once a mutineer, always a mutineer," Lady Barbara would occasionally say of herself.

This week-end she had irritated her parents by choosing a train convenient neither to family nor guests, by arriving speechless with fatigue and by retiring to her bedroom and announcing that she would probably stay there. Lady Crawleigh felt that prudence, after so long delay, might have timed its coming more opportunely; a houseful of young people could be trusted, in dealing with her sentences, to complete the ruin which her husband had begun; but late hours, excitement and the legacy of her illness had reduced Barbara's strength until Dr. Gaisford pronounced that he could not answer for the result if any pressure were put upon her.

Though the windows were now thickly curtained and a bright fire was burning, Barbara could never come into her bedroom without a shiver. In the spring and summer of 1915, when Crawleigh Abbey was a military hospital, she had worked by night and lain awake by day, deliberately and with the sun shining on her face, for fear of dreaming. Madness or death could be no worse than the torture of being pitilessly and unceasingly watched when she knew that she was only dreaming but could not wake. Of late the form of her dreams had changed, growing less defined; there was no longer the old accusing pair of eyes to reproach and spy on her as soon as the room was in darkness, but she was conscious of vague presences which she could not clearly see. After fainting in the train a month before, she had heard Eric's voice in her sleep, though she could not recognize a face which she had never seen; none of her dream-faces had features. There was a shadow somewhere in all her visions of Eric; some day she feared that the shadow would take form, the eyes would return to watch her.…

The fire was so bright that the room grew no darker when she turned off the light; and, though she placed a coloured handkerchief over her eyes, it gave her no protection. When she pulled it impatiently away, the glare was so fierce that she could not see the familiar bookcases and chairs. Gradually the whole room was enveloped in a sheet of flame, and in the midst she saw a gigantic figure on a throne.

"God," she whispered—and knew that she was dead and had come to be judged.

The throne was familiar from an old picture in Siena; God was the Ancient of Days, drawn by Blake for the Book of Job. Strange that, after all, these stories were true.… She wondered why He was old or, being old, why He was no older.… The white flame beat mercilessly upon her eyes, and she could see that they were alone in Space.

God was waiting for her to confess.…

It was idle to confess when God was omniscient, and she kept her lips obstinately closed.

But God and she were alone in Time. He had sat for an eternity before she came to the judgement-seat; He would wait for an eternity and condemn her for an eternity.…

"Vanity.… I suppose that's what you want me to say." She wondered whether her voice would carry through Space; she was no bigger than God's right hand…alone…and naked. "I've always been spoiled, and that makes any one vain. Some allowance…"

It was idle to excuse herself when God was omniscient.

"I didn't realize what I was doing." (God must know that she was speaking the truth now.) "He never missed an opportunity of hurting me—quite unfairly; I've nothing to be ashamed of before I met him. I made up my mind to shew him I wasn't quite as bad as he thought. He . . . fell in love with me and wanted to marry me.… I was taken by surprise…mad.… I didn't know what I was saying, I told him I couldn't marry any one who wasn't a Catholic.…"

Catholic …

Barbara stopped short to wonder what God must think of all the jarring sects which laid claim to His exclusive revelation. The Ancient of Days, God the Father, Jehovah, Allah.… She had always wondered what He would make of His fratricidal followers. Catholic, Protestant, Orthodox.… What must Christ make of the bitter fanatics who swam through blood to a world of universal love?

She had lost her way in the confession; and God brooded in silence over Space and Time, ignoring her, forgetting her. She sank to the ground, hiding her face in her hands and wondering when she had died. Perhaps God had waited until Jack Waring was killed, so that he might testify against her.…

"I know it was a lie," she broke out suddenly, "but I didn't realize what I was doing. The next thing…Is this Hell? I always felt I was going through Hell on earth. That night…I didn't see or hear from Jack for three months; I thought he'd given me up. I was happy for the first time since I'd met him. Then he followed me into the country and asked me again if I'd marry him. He said he was a Catholic now. He'd believed me, he'd done this for me, perjured himself.… I remember saying to myself "If there is a God…" I didn't know.… "If he has a soul to lose.…" I couldn't undo it. I did what I could for him, I wrote and said I'd marry him, I swore it by the sign of the Cross.… He went out to the war, he never answered; he's killed now.… I don't know what you're going to do with me. I've been punished. It can't be any satisfaction to you to send me out of my mind. For a year I've been tortured. Now I was just beginning to forget and to be happy. I suppose you want to take that away.… I didn't realize.… Why shouldn't I be happy?"

The dim figure on the throne made no answer, and Barbara began to crawl forward. Perhaps God had not heard.… But she would spend years crawling through Space.…

"I want to get it over. No punishment's as bad as this suspense. You know that.… Won't you tell me what I'm to do…?"

She crawled forward again, though her knees were aching. Above her loomed God's foot-stool; and she touched it reverently, then beat upon it furiously in the hope that God might rise and kill her again … for ever.… The sheet of flame marched nearer until it scorched her eyes. Space and Time shrank and were consumed until she found herself kneeling upright, staring wildly at the fire and beating with open palms on the wooden end of the bed.

Barbara fell backwards, pulling the clothes up to her chin.

"Another second…and I should have gone mad," she whispered.

Downstairs some one had thrown open a window, some one was playing a piano. She turned on the light and rang for her maid.

"I shall get up for dinner after all," she said. "I mean, I shan't.… I don't know what I'm talking about. What—I mean—is: I shall get out of bed for dinner, but I shan't go down. That's clear, isn't it? What's the time?"

"Eight o'clock, my lady."

Then her dream had lasted less than five minutes.…

"I'm going to sleep. I shan't want any dinner. Will you bring the telephone in here?"

The maid left the room in bewilderment at the conflicting orders and sought counsel of the housekeeper. Ten minutes later Lady Crawleigh came in to find Barbara in bed with the telephone tucked under one arm and the receiver to her ear. She finished some request for an address, nodded as the answer was given and lifted the instrument to a table by her side.

"Well, my dear, you seem to have given poor Merton a fright," said Lady Crawleigh. "Is anything the matter?"

"I never felt better in my life," answered Barbara.

"Are you coming down to dinner?"

"I don't think I'm well enough for that.… You can get on without me. If things seem to hang fire, get Gerry Deganway to give imitations of His Excellency."

Lady Crawleigh bridled at the suggestion.

"That's not at all a respectful way to speak of your father," she observed reprovingly.

"Well, His ex-Excellency, then. That no better? Sorry. He's very amusing—Gerry, I mean. Why not get father to give imitations of Gerry? In its way, that ought to be just as funny."

Her mother advanced reproachfully to the bed and laid her hand upon the rail.

"If you're not feeling well," she said with incontrovertible logic, "you ought to go to sleep instead of telephoning to people and writing to people. If you're all right, you ought to help with these tiresome creatures. They're your guests."

Barbara felt her own pulse and sighed.

"I'm well enough to write one letter," she said, "and perhaps to get up in time for lunch to-morrow."

Then she hunted among the pillows for a pencil and addressed an envelope to "Eric Lane Esq^re, Lashmar Mill-House, Lashmar, Near Winchester, Hants."

She was already tired; perhaps, if she could fix her thoughts on Eric until she fell asleep, she would be spared a second vision of judgement. A dressing-gong sounded in the distance, and she debated whether to abandon her letter to Eric and go down. Gerald Deganway would be simperingly sympathetic. "Your mother tells me you're not feeling very grand" (odious phrase). "Poor you!" (Damnable phrase, damnable creature—with his insecure eye-glass and plastered flaxen hair!) Johnny Carstairs would be pontifical and pretentious—"The unhappy Foreign Office comes in for all the kicks. There's a body of three-pound-a-week gentlemen in Fleet Street who'd enforce a real blockade, 'leave it to the Navy,' don't you know, all that sort of thing. I'm aware of them; I sometimes wish I could have a heart-to-heart talk with them.…" By staying in bed she was at least keeping the promise that she had given to Eric; the sense of surrender was a novel experiment in emotion.

She finished the letter and switched off the light. Darkness was not going to usher in faces to-night. Her soul felt healed.

"You absurd darling child!"

She whispered the words aloud and felt warm tears over-brimming her eyes. She loved him for his extraordinary callow youth—which had carried the chaste chivalry of sixteen to the age of twice sixteen; she loved his little occasional tender gleams of womanliness.… And he was so easy to mystify and tease. She felt the warmth and the taut muscles of his arm round her body as he led her home across St. James' Park, her head on his shoulder, sleeping, secure and forgetful.

"Dear Eric, I wish you were here now!" she murmured.

Lord Crawleigh, indignant that Barbara should desert her own party the first night, but vaguely disquieted that she was ill enough to go to bed of her own volition, peeped into her room on his way down to dinner. There was no answer to his jerky, sharp call of "Barbara" and he turned on the light. Her eyes were closed, but she was smiling; he walked to the bed to make certain that she was not trying any of her tricks on him.

"Barbara!"

"Yes, darling?"

She opened her eyes, and their drowsy contentment faded away.

"I only came to see if you were asleep."

"I'm not—now," she answered wistfully.

"Well, why don't you get some decent sleep? You racket about and overtax your strength and excite yourself.… And this is the result!"

"I'll do my best, father."

As he creaked out of the room, she shut her eyes tight and tried in despair to woo herself back to the moment of half-consciousness when Eric drew her cloak across her chest and she roused to ask him sleepily "Am I coming undressed?"

2

Barbara rang for tea at noon and came down to luncheon in a house which was gratifyingly demoralized by her absence. Her father had spent Sunday morning in his study, writing letters; her mother had carried the more devout members of the party to mass and from mass to a vague, bored exploration of the garden, where they could be seen scattered on the lowest terrace, trying to make friends with an unresponsive peacock; the men, headed by Pentyre, were warmly entrenched round the smoking-room fire in a blue tobacco-haze and a litter of Sunday papers. George Oakleigh, in naval uniform, was unashamedly sleeping in a deep window-embrasure, his mouth open and his eyeglasses on his knees. Deganway and Carstairs were arguing in subdued tones and seemed as vacantly uninterested as Pentyre, who had exhausted the feuilleton of his paper and was studying the advertisements.

She was pleased by the stir with which her entrance galvanized them into alertness, by Oakleigh's sympathetic enquiries, even by Deganway's critical examination of her dress.

"Well, make the most of me, everybody," she said. "I'm going back to bed immediately after lunch. What's everybody doing?"

"I've been asleep," Oakleigh answered contentedly.

Barbara looked round her and wrinkled her nose.

"What are you going to do?" she pursued.

"I should like to go on sleeping.…"

"Come for a walk, Babs," interrupted Pentyre. "It's my last leave——"

"Then you'd better rest instead of working on my emotions. George, on the other hand, never gets any exercise at the Admiralty, and, as he's never been here before, I think I shall take him round the house. Besides, he hasn't asked me to do anything. Come on, George!"

Oakleigh rose with sufficient alacrity and accompanied her for an hour through the ruins of the Abbey, the Elizabethan reconstruction and the Georgian incrustation. Knowing Barbara, he had secured what he wanted by pretended indifference, though he was less interested in hall and refectory, Prior's house and dormitory than in her knowledge of architecture and early English furniture.

"Another of my accomplishments," she laughed. "George, what sort of reputation have I got? A man was so surprised the other day to find that I could play the piano and sing.…"

"I know what I think of you," he answered. "Possibly you know it too."

Barbara looked away abstractedly, as though she had not heard him. Ever since her illness, George had shewn her a tender devotion; and, when Sonia Dainton and her other friends had succumbed to the war-epidemic of marriage, she had fancied that it would be very restful to marry him. The mood lasted for a week, and it was in this time that she had invited him to the Abbey. Then a dream, of which she could remember few details, had shattered the lazy romance which she was weaving; there was a shadow which she knew would take form as Jack Waring, there was a hint of the wild oath which she had taken when she was mad; and she had decided that God was punishing her by opening her eyes to happiness and then throwing a bar of shadow across her path as she struggled to reach it. Those were the days when she heard that Jack was missing, the nights when she prayed to hear that he was dead. Now that George was at hand, she did not want him; she might find peace by marrying him, but she would find nothing more.…

"Dear George! You think I'm perfect, don't you?"

"Perfection is meant to be more admired than loved."

"I've nothing but my imperfections to make people love me."

"That's a woman's way of marrying on her debts.… You're better, Babs, than when I came to see you in London. I hope you're—happier."

"Ah, if only I could undo.…"

She broke off, and George looked at her cautiously to see whether she was trying him with the pose of conscience-stricken penitent, already a little out-moded after fourteen months of war.

"You certainly had your share of scrapes, but there was nothing discreditable in them. Too much vitality——"

She spread out her hands, white and transparent in the sun-light.

"I'd done everything else! Being with father everywhere.… And I was driven into it by opposition. I must have been a mule in a previous incarnation. D'you know, if father says he's coming here by the 4.10, I have to come by the 5.40, however inconvenient it may be to everybody—just to assert myself?"

"But that wasn't the only reason," George suggested.

"What d'you mean?"

She had ceased to smile, and two faint lines of annoyance were visible between her eye-brows.

"I'm sorry. It was no business of mine," said George apologetically.

"I don't mind you. But it was no business of the Deganway creature. Can't you break his eye-glass or cut a piece off the end of his nose, George? Did he tell you who I came down with?"

"Deganway is always thorough in his investigations. I'm sorry I mentioned it; I was only teasing you."

"I don't mind you," she repeated. "But it does make things so impossible if father and mother go about fancying.… Come to lunch! I'll be in time for one meal," she cried, seizing his arm and hurrying him the length of the echoing refectory.

At luncheon and recurrently through the afternoon Barbara wondered how far Deganway's gossiping tongue had already prejudiced her relations with Eric. If he heard that they were being discussed, he would in all probability strike an attitude and declare that he could not be a party to compromising her any longer. At present he was too novel a distraction for her to spare him easily; already he had become so important to her life that she had forgotten George Oakleigh and the thrill of gratitude and elation which she had felt when he began sluggishly but surely to fall in love with her.

The house-party had dispersed before she came down next day. Breakfast in bed was a dull meal, because she had hoped to find an unsolicited letter from Eric—about anything. She had to wait until the second post, and that only brought her the briefest possible acceptance of her invitation. Not until Tuesday did she receive the long letter which he had written on Saturday night. And the intimacy and tenderness of it were half spoiled even then, for Lady Crawleigh followed her maid into the room, enquired affectionately how Barbara was feeling and settled down to read instructive extracts from The Times.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Crawleigh Abbey seemed suddenly very big and deserted. Barbara secured a trunk call to Eric's flat on Monday night; but, after twenty minutes to wonder why she shewed so little pride and whether he would be angry with her, a faint voice answered that Mr. Lane was dining out. Something which she could not analyze told her that she would be taking an unfair risk with his affection, if she tried to communicate with him again. She could hardly understand why she was staying in bed and taking so great care of herself; but it was Eric's wish, and she had felt a leap at the heart when he interested himself in her welfare. If he only knew, it would do her much more good to be with him, to tease him and laugh at him and set him attitudinizing and then to charm a word or gesture of affection from him…and then to laugh at him again and see him perplexed and exasperated. She was very grateful to him for bringing a new interest into her life.…

Little Val Arden had once said, years before the war, that she would find her greatest emotion on the day when she lost her heart.…

But it were useless to fall in love with Eric if she could not make him return her love.…

Thursday seemed as far away as the throne of God in that ghastly nightmare.… She wrote Mrs. Shelley a letter which she hoped would not read so transparently false as it seemed to her in writing.

"Dearest Marion, I feel so rude for never having apologized either for running away myself so early or for dragging Eric Lane away from your delightful party. I was feeling dreadfully tired. I'm in bed now; in fact, I've hardly been out of bed since I came here on Saturday, and he put a pistol to my head and insisted on taking me home. I shall be in London for one or two nights next week. Will you shew that you forgive us by inviting us again? Your affectionate Barbara."

It seemed a pity not to exploit a good idea to the full, and she next wrote to her cousin Amy Loring.

"You said the other day that you had never met Eric Lane, though he was a great friend of Jim's. He was at Margaret Poynter's the other day when I was there. Would you like me to invite him to dine one night next week (I shall be up in London for two or three days)? Ring me up between tea and dinner on Thursday.…"

There remained Colonel Grayle, who had jerked out, as she left the "Divorce" with George Oakleigh: "Clever play! Rather like to meet the author. Decent feller, I believe." If she met him again, she could offer to bring about a meeting.…

It was regrettable that she and Eric knew so few people in common.

3

Before leaving her dentist, Barbara telephoned to remind Eric of his promise to dine with her. His answering voice was almost audibly guilty, for the engagement had been allowed to fade from his mind, though his watchful secretary would have seen to it later that he kept his appointment.

When he arrived, the house was eerily dark and deserted. The door was opened by a girl in a black dress, presumably—from the absence of cap and apron—Barbara's own maid, and he was conducted through a twilit hall where the great chandeliers were draped in dusting-sheets, up a side staircase and over more dusting-sheets to the door of the boudoir. Here the evidence of desolation ended in vast bowls of autumn roses, a log fire, blazing electric lights and the beginnings of inevitable untidiness—ripped envelopes on the floor, a silk cloak in one chair and gloves in another and, on the hearth-rug, a chinchilla muff with a grey Persian kitten asleep half inside it.

Eric knelt down and played with the kitten until the bedroom door opened and Barbara hurried in.

"Glad to see me, Eric?" she whispered.

"I've—noticed you weren't here," he answered. "You're looking better, Babs. And I like your kitten."

"I brought her up to chaperon you," she explained. "Are you going to be bored, dining alone with me? I warned you what it would be like." She pointed doubtfully towards a table set for two. "We put the dirty plates on the floor, and my maid will take them away when she brings coffee. I've only her and one kitchen-maid to keep me alive. Eric, I've been looking forward to this most enormously. That was a sweet letter you wrote me from Lashmar—I love the name! Lashmar Mill-House—You were very fond of Jack, I could see. Shall we begin?"

Eric looked at the photograph on the mantel-piece before sitting down.

"He was the greatest friend I ever had," he answered wistfully. "An unusual character. If you liked him, he could make you do anything he pleased.… Did you see much of him? His sister was surprised to find that you knew him."

Barbara finished her soup without answering. Then, as Eric took away her empty plate, she looked up at him with a slight frown of perplexity.

"Did he never mention me to you?" she asked. "Somehow—I thought you understood, Eric. Didn't any one else tell you? There are so many stories about me——"

"I honestly don't know what you're referring to," said Eric, laying down his knife and fork in perplexity.

She looked at him closely with eyebrows raised.

"When we discussed the photograph, and I asked you to find out anything you could…Didn't you see that Jack meant a great deal to me?"

The colour had fled from her cheeks, and she was sitting with head bent forward, deeply preoccupied with the food on her plate. Gazing blankly at her, Eric tried to imagine what kind of intimacy she could have formed with the elusive celibate who never spoke to women or discussed them.…

Something was expected of him.…

"It never occurred to me," he said lamely. "Of course, Jack never mentioned a word——"

"He wouldn't.… Jim knew, but he wouldn't either.… There was no one else to give me away.… I've always been afraid of saying something in my sleep.… I want to forget, forget.…"

The words came out in jerks, with a sobbing struggle for breath between. Her head was bent so low that she did not see him rise and come round to her side; a startled shiver passed through her, as he knelt down and put his arm round her shoulders, drawing her to him until her cheek rested against his.

"Babs, dear! Darling Babs!" he whispered. "Don't——"

"Ah, don't tell me not to cry, Eric! I've kept it down, I have been brave, but it's sending me mad!"

She was sliding limply off the chair, as though her bones had been broken in company with her pride and resistance. He led her to a sofa and knelt beside her, sometimes gently chafing her hands, sometimes drying the slow tears which rolled down her cheeks. Once or twice she tried to speak, but he hushed her to silence.

"Darling, you must stop now," he commanded as the tears ceased and she began to sob drily. "When I said 'Don't——,' I was going to say 'Don't stop crying, don't mind me; it will do you good.' But you'll make yourself ill, if you go on." He caught her wrist and gripped it. "Put your feet up, because I'm going to push the sofa to the fire.… Your shoulders are frozen.… Now I'm going to bring you the lobster.… And you haven't had anything to drink yet."

After a single weak protest she entered into the spirit of his fireside picnic and by the time that he had seated himself cross-legged on the floor she was laughing at his apprehensive care in keeping his trousers from losing their crease. When coffee was brought in, he gave her a cigarette and raised her hand clumsily to his lips.

"I'm sorry I've been unsympathetic, Babs." There was no answer, and he could see her staring into the fire with eyes that were covered with a film of tears. "I didn't understand, I thought you were ill and over-excited, or I'd have bitten out my tongue before I snubbed you and told you that you were a nuisance. Will you forgive me?"

The film of tears gathered into shining drops and rolled mournfully down her cheeks.

"As if I had anything to forgive.… You'll never speak to me again, if I tell you. And if I don't tell you…If I don't tell you, I could never look you in the eyes."

Barbara stared at the fire, and for a moment it seemed as though she were again making confession at the judgement-seat of God.

"I met Jack two years ago," she began hurriedly. "He'd been saying things that hurt me, so I arranged to stay with the Pentyres when he was there and I made him fall in love with me. One night at Ross House he asked me to marry him. I…I don't defend myself; I'd never dreamed of marrying him. Even then it wouldn't have been so bad, if I'd told him the truth, if I'd admitted that I'd led him on to punish him. Instead … I looked for some excuse which would save my face; I said 'But you aren't a Catholic, are you?' I never saw him again till my cousin Jim Loring's ball just before the war.…"

At the memory of their meeting Barbara shuddered until she could not speak. There had been no hint of warning; she was in the drawing-room after dinner when Lady Knightrider's car arrived from Raglan, and Jack put his head in at the door to ask if he might have supper with her.

"I asked him what he'd been doing with himself all the summer," Barbara went on with a spurt. "He said, 'I've just been received into your Church.'"

She paused and stared in terror round the room as though it were changing under her eyes into the haunted banqueting-hall of Loring Castle.

"I couldn't speak.… The music stopped, I heard people clapping, it went on again. Then there were voices on the stairs, and Jack asked me again to marry him. I said I couldn't. He wanted to know why. Then … then I had to tell him I wasn't in love with him. Then he saw everything."

Barbara looked up quickly, with her hand to her forehead as though to ward off a blow. It was then that Jack stared at her, through her, into her soul; and his eyes had followed her ever since. At first she braced herself to meet his attack, but it was not the occasion for conventional recriminations. If a man's soul could be imperilled, she had handed Jack's over to damnation. God…Hell…Immortal souls.… She had not believed in them till that moment, but there was always that eerie hundredth chance that they existed.

Eerie.…

Her attention was captured by the word and wandered away in search of a missing line.

Jack had sat silent and motionless, too much dazed even to rise and leave her. There was a sound of more voices in the hall, and Charlie Framlingham waltzed into the room with Jack Summertown and subsided at a table by the door. They had hardly begun supper when George Oakleigh entered to say that war had changed from speculation to probability and that officers were being mobilized. Then at last Jack roused, and she had only a moment for making amends.

"Jack was talking about applying for a commission," she went on. "I went out on to the terrace, I wanted to think.… It was no good apologizing.… They got into the car, one after another. I was still trying to think. Jack came down the steps.… And then I saw that there was only one reparation I could make; I had to offer myself to him, even if he hit me in the mouth.… I didn't care about my vanity now; I called out to him, but the others were making such a noise.… The car started, I was blinded by the head-lights. When I could see again, there was only a little pin-point of red light. I shouted, ran.… Then I came back. When every one else had gone to bed, I told Jim. And I thought he'd have killed me.… And then I swore solemnly that Jack should have me if he wanted me. I wrote to him, and he never answered my letter. I tried to see him. And now…"

Eric rose and stood by the fire, resting his head on his hand.

"You offered the only reparation in your power," he said at length.

"What am I to do?" she asked dizzily. "I want peace!…I told him that, whatever happened, however long the war went on, I should always be here, always ready to keep my promise, always prepared to make what amends I could.… I've dedicated myself. If he's alive, until he tells me that he rejects me…"

With a sigh of exhaustion, she slipped forward, turning as she fell and burying her arms and face. The rose in her hair trembled to the heaving of her shoulders and scattered a shower of petals over the cushions of the sofa.

4

"And I meant to be so sweet, I meant to make you enjoy yourself until you thought me quite irresistible," Barbara laughed through her tears, kneeling upright on the sofa and dabbing at her eyes. "And then I was going to tell you that I have to come up to my dentist once a week for about two months; and I shall be all alone and I wanted you to promise to make me happy—like to-night."

Her recovery was as sudden as her collapse. Still kneeling with her hands clasped behind her head, she leaned forward until he had to catch her in his arms.

"I don't feel I've made you particularly happy to-night," said Eric, bending one arm into an angle for her head and throwing the other round her waist to hold her on to the sofa.

"I feel as if my spirit were almost clean again.… Will you come and see me sometimes, Eric?"

"If you'll go to bed instantly, after leaving a note on the mat to say that you're not to be called till you ring."

There was a touch of frost in the air, as Eric walked home; yet he went slowly, because he wanted to think. Jack was his best friend, and Barbara had behaved.… He could not abuse the girl even in thought, after trying to comfort her and saying that she started with a clean slate. But if any other girl had behaved like that…any girl who meant nothing to him. Even with Barbara he ought not to be so suavely forgiving at Jack's expense.… It was impossible to reconcile loyalty to both of them.

Before going to bed he wrote her a note, inviting her to lunch with him next day at Claridge's before she went back to Crawleigh Abbey; and, as soon as she was sure of his mood, Barbara released her invitations; the quietest possible party with Amy Loring (who was so anxious to meet him because he had known Jim), two days afterwards a dinner for two in Berkeley Square, followed by Mrs. O'Rane's house-warming, later still a decorous and rather dull dinner with Colonel Grayle.

"You might dine with me for a change," Eric suggested, as he drove her home at the end of the week. "I'll get my sister to come and keep you in countenance—she's never seen my flat—and I'll think of another man."

"I'd sooner dine with you alone, Eric," pleaded Barbara.

"On first principles I discourage young girls from visiting bachelors in their rooms. I was born in the 'eighties, and I don't seem to have caught up."

"There are restaurants," Barbara suggested. "It's quite fairly respectable to dine without a chaperon—since the war."

Eric turned and looked out of the window with a frown. He had not troubled to tell her that he had lately received a shock which threatened to make further meetings impossible. During a lull in the tumult at Mrs. O'Rane's party he had heard Lady Maitland's rumbling preparations for an introduction. "Eric Lane? My dear Raymond Stornaway, you mean to say you haven't heard of him? But he's the coming playwright. You've not seen that thing of his——? My memory's like a sieve.… You must go." It was very familiar, but, as the other voices fortuitously grew hushed, he heard a new pendant. "But you know her? Babs. Babs Neave. Barbara Neave. Now don't pretend you don't know Lady Barbara Neave! Every one tells me that they're desperately in love with each other. Of course Crawleigh wouldn't hear of it, but he doesn't know what to do. You know what the girl is! If you oppose her.… It's an absurd position. You must come along and meet them. And I'll arrange a little party. I think you'd be amused."

"All the restaurants are so crowded nowadays," said Eric.

"But if you telephone for a table——"

He was grown too fond of Barbara to provide people like Lady Maitland with an excuse for saying that he was compromising her; and he was not going to pave the way for an unpleasant altercation with Lord Crawleigh (when he would have nothing to say for himself).

"I'll dine with you, if you like," he suggested.

5

On the morning of the day when "The Bomb-Shell" was to be produced, Eric found his diary overflowing into a new volume. Before snapping the lock for the last time and burying the book in the little steel safe which he had had built behind one of the panels in the dining-room, he turned the pages for ten months, starting with the first night of his first play and ending with the dress rehearsal of the second. The ten months' record was so engrossing that he lay in bed, smoking and reading, instead of ringing for his secretary. One day he had been an unknown journalist; the next—in a phrase of which he could never tire—he awoke to find himself famous. Half-forgotten acquaintances who had sent him cards for dances now invited him to dinners at which he was courted and instantly handed on. At first he had written down, with more pleasure than cynicism, the complimentary phrases which had tickled his vanity; that had soon palled, and the compliments were monotonously framed; after two months he only recorded such triumphs as when old Farquaharson invited him to call. "I would give much to have written your play; I would have given anything to write it at your age." Some day, when Barbara was in a disparaging mood, he would shew her that jealously guarded letter.

An idle whim sent his fingers searching for the Poynter dinner where he had first met her. Since that night her influence, suspected but never established, had caused "Dined with Lady Poynter" to be a frequent entry. Every Thursday he went to Berkeley Square, every Friday Barbara lunched with him in Ryder Street—after sweeping aside his scruples by appealing in his presence to her mother for leave to come to his flat unchaperoned. And for an appreciable part of each week Barbara devoted herself to arranging further meetings in the houses of their friends.

"Took Lady B. home late and circuitously."

Eric was mildly surprised to find how lately their tropical intimacy had begun. Two months.… And no one—in court or outside—would believe the truth.… "Dined with B. in her boudoir, the house being in curl-papers. She unwontedly communicative, but tired and in need of rest." The discreet phrasing gave him all the reminder that he wanted to construct again the night when she had told him about Jack Waring—she had indeed been communicative——; and any one who broke down as she had done presumably stood in need of rest.…

On that night she had turned herself from an adventure into a habit; in place of sentimental tilting there had been born a love without passion.…

He laid aside the diary as the telephone-bell rang.

"Hullo? Good-morning, Eric. Many happy returns of the day!"

"But it isn't my birthday."

"It's our new play, stupid. Are you feeling very nervous?"

"Not in the least. If it's going to be a success, it'll be a success; if it's going to be a failure, my feeling nervous won't help things."

"M'yes. I like you better when you're less philosophical and more human. I suppose you're simply flooded with telegrams and letters of good wishes. Darling, I'm so excited! If it doesn't go well—of course, it isn't a good play; I've never said that, have I?"

"I sometimes wonder whether you'll ever say that of any play I write," he laughed.

"Oh, you will do good work some day. But I thought, after knowing me all these weeks—well, if it doesn't make the most tremendous hit, I shall walk quietly out of the theatre and throw myself into the river."

"I certainly shan't jump in after you."

"Not even for the advertisement? Would you miss me, Eric?"

"I'm almost sure to at first," he answered with a laugh. "Babs, I've got to get up now——"

"Don't you dare to ring me off, Eric! I want to know about to-night."

"Scott's at seven."

"And what dress would you like me to wear?"

He pondered over the familiar ritual.

"The one I always call the 'fairy queen,' I think."

"Well, say 'please.'"

"'Please.' I must get up now, or I shall be late at the office. Good-bye, Babs darling."

"Good-bye, sweetheart."

They dined with unnecessary haste. For all his philosophy, Eric's nervousness shewed itself in over-frequent consultation of his watch, and they entered their box before the stalls were half-full. Barbara sat forward, bowing to friends in the familiar, first-night gathering; but he preferred to stand at her side, hidden by a curtain, while she called back the names of the new arrivals. This was a greater ordeal than the evening when his first play was produced, for he was known now, and the critics would judge him by the success and standard of the earlier play; instead of a handful of old colleagues, he was now on nodding terms with a third of the audience; it was a personal trial, and he did not want to fail under their eyes; most of all he did not want to fail before Barbara.

As the curtain went up, he sat down beside her and, after a quick glance at the stage, began to inspect the house. Her hand slipped into his, and he heard a whispered "Cheer up! It's going to be a tremendous success. I will it to be!" Then his attention went back to the house. Why the devil couldn't people take the trouble to arrive in time? Pushing their way in late, blocking the view.… Mrs. Shelley, of all people. He knew her well enough to speak plainly about it.… The house was very quiet, very cold; expectant, perhaps, but they ought to be warming now.… A slip—and another! It was curious that a woman like Mabel Elstree could go on rehearsing and being pulled up over the same thing again and again without ever learning—a moderately intelligent woman too—working at her own job.… The last week had been thrown away.…

But in all the rehearsals he had never noticed how this opening dragged. Manders had never criticized it (one of the few things he hadn't tried to cut about); and it was dragging. In a moment people would be yawning and talking to one another; the pit would become noisy with its feet; already there was a rustle; if they would only look at the stage instead of trying to learn their programmes by heart! They should have done that before! And still the house was cold.… God in heaven! small blame to it!

Eric sat back with tightly shut mouth, then grew suddenly rigid. There was a single quick laugh, the herald for gusty laughter rising simultaneously from a dozen different parts; instead of stopping, it swelled and engulfed the house. Ah, thank God! that sea of vacant, stiff faces had broken! The house was alive and warm. The players, pausing of necessity, breathed thanksgiving before returning to dialogue which had become suddenly imbued with new strength and finish.

Eric felt Barbara's lips at his ear.

"Didn't I say I'd will it for you?" she whispered.

"It might go quite well," he answered, unsuccessfully nonchalant. "Every one's in a good temper now."

"And you can let go my hand for a minute!" She winced and put one knuckle into her mouth. "I stood it as long as I could, but you've been driving my rings into my unhappy finger—All right, darling! kiss the place to make it well. I could see you weren't enjoying yourself, but you wanted me to feel it, too. So sweet of you!"

In the first interval they stayed in the box and allowed themselves to be seen; during the whole of the second an army of their friends laid siege to the door with greetings to Barbara and congratulations to Eric. He would have liked to smoke a cigarette outside with some of his old colleagues; he would have liked still better to think it all over in peace. This was going to be a greater success than the first play! And Barbara, with tears in her eyes, was saying "Come and congratulate us!"

Eric had little idea who flooded the box during that tempestuous ten minutes. Lady Maitland was there with an air of having written the play or at least of having discovered the author. And Gerald Deganway, who never missed a first night, simpering falsetto congratulations. And Colonel Waring and Agnes: he remembered them, because he was so much surprised to see them…and he had wanted to introduce Agnes to Babs, and there had been no opportunity.… And Colonel Grayle and Sonia O'Rane, who invited them to come back for supper.… There was violent reaction after his early nervousness, and he found himself within an inch of giggling. When the lights were lowered and he had hurried the last visitors from the box, he sat down and buried his face in his hands. How long it was he never knew, before Barbara leaned over him, pulling gently at his arm.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

"Come outside," she whispered.

They walked to a flight of four steps leading through a fire-proof door to the wings.

"Where are you going to?" he asked.

"Sit down; it's quiet here. Now listen carefully: there's only about another twenty minutes, and then they'll want a speech from you. Now, I won't say a word! Just think out a few sentences; don't try to be original or clever; just thank them—the usual thing—as conventional as you can make it." Her solicitous voice trembled and broke. "My own darling, I am so happy to see you happy! I'm so proud of you! Our play! Oh, Eric, thank God for you and all your sweetness to me!"

He looked up with startled eyes, suddenly tired.

"You're an angel, Babs! But you always give me a guilty conscience, when you're like this. I think of the things I might have done and haven't; and I think of the things I have said and done, which I might have spared you."

"Well, go on giving me your love! Why you should talk as if you owed me anything…"

A moment later he was alone, with the memory of her lips still trembling on his. He lighted a cigarette and paced up and down the passage, thinking out his speech. She had left the box-door open, and, as the curtain fell, he took up his position where he could see the house applauding. Loud and continuous, gloriously continuous, came the clapping. The curtain was drawn aside, and the players came forward, one by one. A crescendo of cheers greeted Manders, dying down until he could utter his smiling six sentences of acknowledgement. Then there was a pause. The lights were still lowered. Simultaneously in rasping barks came the call of "Author! Author!"

Barbara turned her head and blew him a kiss with the finger-tips of both hands.

"I suppose I'd better put in an appearance," he drawled, stamping on his cigarette-end. "Don't be offended if I don't look at you, Babs; you'd make me forget all I was going to say."

"Affection is the most insidious form of self-indulgence."—From the Diary of Eric Lane.