1

In the second week of November Manders began to rehearse "Mother's Son," and, after two attendances, Eric retired to Lashmar for uninterrupted work on his American lectures. Jack might reach London any day, and he could not face a meeting nor wait to be told of an encounter between Jack and Barbara. His own rash magnanimity had set her free and kept him in chains; he had always been so indulgent that he more than half suspected a strain of kindly contempt in her; she had once told him that they would be miserable together because he would always be too gentle to keep her in order.… Any day now might see him dismissed like an outworn servant.

With native caution he did not pledge himself to stay at Lashmar for a specified time; that would depend on Jack, on Barbara, on his own work and a dozen other things. It was essential that he should keep himself posted regularly in Jack's movements, and he walked over to Red Roofs on the morrow of his arrival. Agnes gave him all the information that she possessed, but gave it with reservation, as though she were conferring a favour; and, when he left, she walked with him to the gate of the woods and blurted out that she was engaged to Dick Benyon. As he congratulated her, Eric remembered their last parting by the sun-dial, when she had told him not to worry even if gossiping papers coupled his name with Barbara's, when she had pointed out, too, that they could end the gossip in a day by ceasing to meet. She did not seem extravagantly happy; each had lost the other without finding the perfect substitute; but Agnes, with greater wisdom than he had ever shewn towards Barbara, had resolved that a secondary place was not enough.

After that he avoided the Warings, but Sybil returned one night from Red Roofs with a report that Jack was expected there within three days. He had seen a specialist in London and was forbidden to attempt any brain-work for three months; even the easy experiment in Paris had been a mistake. Eric's mind was busy with excuses to get back to London, for with Jack as his neighbour, invalided and bored, it would be necessary to see him daily. The Lanes were, fortunately, too much absorbed in their own life to be suspicious of sudden changes in Eric's plans; affectionate regret greeted his announcement that he was returning to London after the week-end, and his sense of the dramatic was grimly amused by the thought that his train would pass Jack's somewhere between Basingstoke and Brooklands.… He might almost be a criminal fleeing from justice.

A note from Jack lay on his hall table, regretting that they had not met, but promising to walk over to the Mill-House the moment that he arrived. It was followed by another, full of mock-indignation.

"If you don't want to see me, you needn't," he wrote. "But for Heaven's sake don't bolt to the country the minute you hear I'm coming to London and then bolt back to London the minute you hear I'm going to the country."

Of course it was all badinage; and yet, if Jack knew everything, the badinage might cover an atrocious hint of his knowledge.…

"I'm losing my sense of reality!" Eric muttered.

The same post brought him a long letter from his mother. Jack had come to tea on the day of his arrival looking very well, on the whole, though the wound on his head was still visible.

"He wants to see you," wrote Lady Lane, "and he particularly asked when you would be down here again. I'm afraid poor Jack is in for rather a dull time. He was hoping so much to be well enough to work, and the sentence of three months' complete rest is a great disappointment; but, if he'll feed up and rest, there's no reason why he shouldn't be as well as he ever was; I'm glad to say that his uncle has behaved quite well. After doing NOTHING all these years for him or Agnes or his own brother, he has at last shewn some decent feeling. If Jack has to be a partial invalid all his life, Lord Waring will give him whatever money's necessary to let him live anywhere he likes and take up any hobby he likes; if he wants to marry (I can't imagine that of Jack), there'll be a proper settlement.…"

If Jack, who was certainly not going to be a pauper, probably not even an invalid, had passed through London without coming to see Barbara, that meant that he did not want to see Barbara. Perhaps he had seen her.…

Eric telephoned to Berkeley Square and found his voice greeted with surprise and apprehensive pleasure.

"I thought you were in the country! You are getting restless, Eric! When did you come up?"

"Only two days ago. Babs…Jack's in England; he called here during the week-end, but of course I was away. I…I thought you'd like to know."

"Thank you, Eric," she answered quietly.

There was a pause which neither liked to break. At last Eric said:

"He didn't come to see you? Why don't you recognize that it's all over, Babs? You say that your soul isn't yours and that you owe it to Jack; well, he's had the chance to come and claim it."

There was a second pause followed by a sigh.

"It's hard to explain, Eric. You see, only he and I know how much he was in love with me before. I was the only person he'd ever cared for.… Even I didn't understand how much he loved me until that night." She sighed again. "I don't believe that, after loving me, he could suddenly cease to love me."

"You gave him pretty good provocation," Eric suggested.

"But you don't cease loving people because they behave badly to you. I've behaved abominably to you. You've given me everything, and all I've done in return is to make you ill and miserable. I've ruined your work, your life—you've told me so, Eric. I've been utterly selfish and heartless. You know I'm vain, you know I'm spoiled, you admit I've behaved atrociously. But you want to marry me in spite of it all."

"I love you in spite of it all."

Barbara said nothing, and her silence was a confession and answer. There were a hundred reasons why Jack had not come to see her yet; his future was uncertain, he must wait for a final verdict from his doctor, he was perhaps still chewing the cud of his resentment. And, when the first reasons were exhausted, her vanity wove a hundred more in stout, impenetrable protection against the fantastic thought that any man could tire of her.

"Oh, I wish you didn't!" Barbara cried at last. "Why don't you go away and forget all about me?"

She had trapped him neatly, as he had no doubt she well knew.

"I can't forget you," he answered, savagely conscious that he was presenting her with new weapons. "Whatever you did, you'd be the biggest thing in my life; I should always need you."

This time she put her triumph into words.

"Don't you think that Jack may need me as badly?"

"He's had his chance.…"

Eric discovered suddenly that the wire had ceased to throb. Evidently she had quietly hung up the receiver. In another moment she could only have offered to say good-bye; and that she would not do. He was beginning to know her moods and her nature very well.…

Lighting a cigarette, he was trying to think what he had been doing before their conversation started, when the telephone-bell rang.

"Eric? It's me, darling. We were cut off. Eric, don't be bitter with me. I've never done anything to deserve your love, but it's been so wonderful that I won't allow you to say anything which will spoil it. Some day I think you'll look back on it as the biggest thing in your life."

2

As soon as Manders announced the opening night of "Mother's Son," Eric booked his passage to New York for the following week. For the first time he informed his parents that he was leaving England and gave them to understand that he was very fully occupied. There were a hundred and one arrangements to conclude, fare-wells to take; and, when he applied to Gaisford for a medical certificate, he found himself packed off to bed with orders to stay there till the day of sailing.

"If you'll do what I tell you, I'll do my best for you," said the doctor sternly. "If you won't, Eric, on my honour I'll wash my hands of you. Now, which is it to be?"

"I shall get up for my own first night," said Eric.

"You'll do what I tell you. If you're fit to go, you shall go. But I don't think you'll be in a condition to stand the excitement of it."

Two days later Eric sent a message to Barbara, reminding her that she had promised to come with him to the first night and warning her that in all probability he would not be able to go. The doctor, he explained, insisted on absolute quiet and absence of excitement. It would have been more honest to add that the doctor had forbidden him to see any visitors; but Eric hoped that Barbara would hurry round as soon as she heard that he was ill and before he could tell her that he was not allowed to have her there. It was a bitter disappointment when his secretary brought back a message of sympathy. Later in the day he received a present of carnations and grapes. It was only when Gaisford commented on them next morning that his disappointment was mitigated.

"I saw her the other day," explained the doctor. "She was sorry to hear you were ill. I told her that I wasn't letting you see any one."

"Where did you see her?" Eric asked, trying to keep his voice unconcerned.

"At her house. The moment I'd left you. I've attended her since she was a baby, so I felt I knew her well enough to tell her once again to leave you alone."

Not until the afternoon of the production did Gaisford relax discipline; then he admitted rather grudgingly that Eric might go to the theatre if he refused all invitations to supper and came straight back to bed. He was to dine at home and he would be wise to leave the house before any one could call on him for a speech.

Eric tried to find out whether a box had been reserved for him, but by the time that he had received a reply from the theatre and telephoned to Barbara, she was not to be found. Dinner was an agony which he strove to make as short as possible. Ordinary nervousness was reinforced by bitter contrasts of this evening with the night when "The Bomb-Shell" was produced. Then Barbara had dined with him and sat in his box, comforting him in the torturing first moments before the play had come into its own; (and he had driven a ring into her poor finger). It had been a night of triumph for them both. Never, before or since, had they been nearer.…

He arrived at the Regency early enough to find the house almost empty. Hiding himself behind the curtains of his box, he watched the familiar audience settling in place, recognizing friends, waving and calling out whispered greetings. Mrs. O'Rane and Colonel Grayle; Lady Poynter and Gerry Deganway; Lady Maitland and one of her boys.… He started and drew farther back, though he was already concealed by the curtains. Barbara had come in with George Oakleigh. They were standing in the gangway, waiting to be shewn their seats. While George disposed of his hat and coat, she threw open her cloak and pinned a bunch of carnations into her dress. They talked for a moment, studied their programmes and began talking again. After a few minutes George produced a pair of opera-glasses and took a leisurely survey of the house. Barbara looked with careless deliberation at the box from which she had watched "The Bomb-Shell"; seeing no one in it, she looked away as deliberately and glanced at the watch on her wrist.

Eric began to open a pile of telegrams. "Good wishes." "All possible success"; such a tribute had meant much to him when his first play was produced.… Two thirds of the stalls were full, though no doubt there would still be enough constitutional late-comers to spoil the first five minutes of the play. Why people could not take the trouble … He pulled himself up and went back to the telegrams; he would not live through the evening if he began to excite himself like this. But what he wanted was to have Barbara by his side, to feel her lips at his ear and to catch her whisper of love and encouragement—"It's going to be a tremendous success! I will it to be!"

He would like to catch her eye.… If the first act went even tolerably, he could allow himself to be seen; perhaps she would come and sit with him for the other two.…

The lights were lowered, there was a moment's silence, and the curtain rolled noiselessly up. Eric sat forward with his eyes fixed on the stage. Then, as the first line was spoken, he threw himself back in his chair with a smothered oath. A trim programme-seller was tripping down the gangway with mincing daintiness—down and down to the very front row of the stalls. A party of four stumbled after her, whispering and groping in the darkness, while she gave them programmes and herded them into their seats. There were whispered apologies, as they squeezed in front of their neighbours; whispered thanks as one man stood up, crushing himself back, and another stepped into the gangway to let them pass. At last they were in place! And then it was time for the two women of the party to whisper again, gesticulating for a redistribution of seats. The men fussed and fidgeted, untying their mufflers and rolling up their overcoats. And then it was time for all four to rustle their programmes. Every one was looking at them instead of at the stage; there was nothing else to look at! For three minutes they had blocked the view for everybody behind them!

Eric was looking at them himself, first indignant, then startled.… He could guess the identity of the first woman, though he could not see her face; of the others there was no doubt. The refraction of the foot-lights shewed him Agnes Waring, with her father in the next seat; on the other side sat Jack. There was no mistaking him; a white circle, the size of a florin, revealed the mark of his scalp wound.…

After drawing back instinctively behind his curtain, Eric leaned an inch forward to steal a glance at Barbara. She was in the third row, six feet behind Jack in a direct line; like every one else she had seen the late-comers, she could not have failed to identify Jack.… But there was no sign of embarrassment; she did not lower her eyes or affect absorption in her programme; she was looking at the stage.… As in "The Bomb-Shell," there came a sudden laugh, sharp as a dog's bark; it was followed by other single laughs, by a boom of throaty, good-tempered chuckling; and the whole house was warmer. Barbara did not laugh, but her white-gloved hands clapped like a child's. She stopped suddenly and touched George Oakleigh's arm, pointing ruefully to a split thumb. Jack Waring sent up a belated rocket of laughter, which started the general laughter again; Eric saw him burying his head, shamefaced, in his hands; Barbara was peeling off the injured glove.

It was conceivable that she had not seen Jack, for she gave no sign of emotion; and, if she had seen him for the first time in more than two years, this would be the strongest emotion of her life. Yet she was watching eagerly, applauding eagerly, wholly engrossed in the play. Once, when the house was silent and concentrated on the stage, she looked round with her earlier deliberation and let her eyes rest on Eric's box. He started guiltily before remembering that she could not see him. Next she borrowed George's glasses and, after a single glance at the stage, raked the four boxes on either side.

"I propose to give the thing a trial. Every one must admit that the present position is intolerable."

The line told Eric that in twenty seconds the curtain would fall. He had hardly any idea how the play was being received, but, obviously, he must not allow any one to see him; he could not stand mouthing inanities to a box full of people when Jack and Barbara were meeting downstairs or when they met—unexpectedly—in his presence. They were within six feet of each other.…

And they would meet within six seconds.…

There was a burst of sustained applause as the curtain fell. It rose again on the full company, fell and rose again on McGrath and Helen Graye, Constable and Lillian Hartley, Joan Castle and Manders; fell and rose again on Joan Castle and Manders alone. Evidently this play, too, was a success. The lights remained lowered, and the company came forward to take the calls—with the usual pause before Manders made his appearance, the usual extra half-minute's smiling and bowing. With practised unconcern he looked for a moment toward Eric's box and then looked away again, as though he had never expected to see any one there. With a final low bow he backed up-stage, and the heavy blue curtains tumbled into place at a half-seen movement of his hand.

As the lights went up, Eric watched the customary recrudescence of restlessness. Eager and lazy discussions began; surprised, shrill recognitions volleyed across the stalls; the men looked at their programmes to see how many acts remained and tentatively felt for their cigarette-cases. He saw George Oakleigh lean towards Barbara, glance at his watch and draw himself slowly to his feet. The movement was a signal and spur for a dozen others. Barbara moved into his place and called a greeting to Deganway who was on the opposite side; he stood up and bent over her, swinging his eye-glass.

Suddenly Eric found himself trembling. After the usual uncertainty, which he had been watching with one eye, he saw Colonel Waring and Jack squeezing past their neighbours. As they turned into the gangway, Jack stared slowly round him and raised his eye-brows in faint surprise when he caught sight of Barbara. They exchanged bows, she held out her hand; Colonel Waring was introduced, and Deganway excused himself. A moment later the colonel bowed a second time and withdrew. Barbara pointed to the empty seat by her side, and Jack stepped across her into it.

The whole meeting was incredibly suave and unemotional. They were talking—as any other two people in the theatre were talking—without any great interest. After a few minutes Oakleigh returned and shook hands with noticeable warmth; there was a short triangular conversation before the lights were lowered; then Jack hurried back to his place.

When the curtain went up on the second act, Eric scribbled a note of congratulation and apology and sent it to Manders by the hand of a programme seller. Then he put on his hat and coat and stole out of the theatre.

3

The next morning Eric summoned his solicitor and divested himself of all domestic ties and obligations as completely as if he were leaving for the Front. A power of attorney was to be prepared; the books were to be stored, the wine sold and the flat let if he had not returned from America within a stated period.…

"You see, I've more money than I can spend," Eric explained. "It's well invested, so that, if I never do another stroke of work, I shall have something to live on. Well, my health's gone to pieces, and I want a long rest and change. This is my opportunity. I'm thirty-three; and I've seen nothing of the world outside Europe. If I start by touring from end to end of America.…"

He was almost carried away by his own enthusiasm in sketching out the years of wandering which lay ahead. Central America, South America, the Pacific Islands, New Zealand, Australia, Japan, China, the Dutch East Indies, Burmah, India.…

"This is all in confidence, of course," he interrupted himself to say. "I haven't breathed a word to my people."

He lacked courage to tell them that he was never coming back. It would be easier if the advertised three months were dragged out to six, the six to twelve. The shock would be mitigated; and he would escape a scene.

When the solicitor was gone, Eric stumbled out of bed and unlocked the safe in his dining-room. There was an infinity of papers to be destroyed and letters to be written. Lady Maitland attacked him at the ill-disguised prompting of her own conscience:

"Why have you neglected us for so long? I hoped to see you at the theatre last night, but Colonel Grayle told me that he thought you were ill. I'm so sorry; and I hope it's not serious. When you're able to get about again, will you telephone and suggest yourself for dinner? I want to talk to you about your play, which I liked quite enormously.…"

So he was to be lionized again—with no one to share his triumphs.… The next letter was from Mrs. Shelley; the next from Lady Poynter, proposing a date in the following week and asking him to telephone.

"You can accept all these for me," he told his secretary, "or as many as don't clash with anything else. I—I've got to say good-bye to a lot of people before I start," he added unnecessarily. "Keep next Wednesday free for me; I want to get my people up for that."

If Barbara's engagement was going to be published at once, he felt that he could not meet Jack after all; at one time it had seemed as though nothing mattered, but his self-control would break down at such a test. And Jack's headquarters were presumably still in Hampshire.…

There was no letter from Barbara next day; and he searched "The Times" vainly for her name. Lunching with George Oakleigh, he met Deganway who had neither news to impart nor questions to ask; at dinner Mrs. Shelley observed with sublime innocence: "You must have been disappointed not to be able to come the other night. Barbara was there, and it was she who told me you were ill." The next day brought no tidings, and Eric had to exert all his strength to keep from writing. It was inhuman of the girl not to tell him—unless she thought that it would be easier to bear a month later, when he was three thousand miles away.

Four days of silence dulled his capacity for suffering; he felt that he would not disgrace himself even if some one appealed to him as the leading authority on Barbara's movements and asked for news of this most romantic engagement. In a week he would be shivering in the danger-zone, zig-zagging round the north coast of Ireland. The power of attorney only awaited his signature, the papers were busily announcing his departure, farewell letters and invitations were pouring in upon him.

There was so much to discuss that he found his family easy to handle. They dined in Ryder Street; and, what with inspecting the flat (which seemed now to belong to some other life) and raining down questions of no importance, they contrived not to ask anything that mattered. Yes, he was going for at least three months—perhaps more, because it would be a pity to get as far as San Francisco without going on to Japan. Yes, he would certainly be grateful for any letters of introduction that his father could give him. Yes, he had bought himself an outfit that would last him for years in all climates.…

Amid the primitive interrogation Eric looked up suddenly at his parents and sister. They and the two boys in Salonica and the North Sea were all that he had; he was fond of them, and they were devoted to him. His mother was talking as she had done twenty years ago, when she searched for holes in his underclothes and socks before sending him back to school; but he once caught her looking at him as though she understood.… His father had roused from an age-long scholar's dream to remember a friend who was now a professor at Columbia University. Sybil was as much excited as if she had been going in his place.… He would never see any of them again, after they had been everything to him all these years! And he was sneaking away without telling them that he would never come back.

"You'll send us a cable to say that you've arrived safely," Lady Lane was saying.

Eric promised quickly and harked back to the letters of introduction. After trying for so long not to think of Barbara, he found that he must not think of his own family. They were still expecting him back in April, "when the weather's a bit more settled."

"I only wish you weren't going so soon," said his mother regretfully. "Geoff's due for leave next month."

"Tell him I was sorry to miss him," Eric answered. "I'm afraid the boat won't wait for me."

He walked back with them to their hotel and said good-bye in the hall, explaining that he was unlikely to see them next day. He had promised to lunch with Manders and to dine with the Poynters; and, though either engagement might have been cancelled, he could not screw himself up to a second parting.

It was curious to feel, as he walked home, that he was beginning the last day of his life in London. Only once more would he unlock the street door and enter the dimly-lit hall which Barbara had invaded fifteen months before.… In the morning he bade awkward farewell to his secretary. On his way to luncheon he paused on the steps of the Thespian, trying to see it as a club and not as one of many places where Barbara had telephoned to him.… Manders, of course, insisted on a champagne luncheon to wish him Godspeed; at intervals he asked how long the tour was to be; and Eric wondered whether a suicide or a condemned man went through this recurrent sense of parting, recurrently spiced with surprise. He would never sit in the oak-panelled dining-room again, never see Manders again.…

Throughout the ritual of the day he could not grow accustomed to saying good-bye. It was all so familiar; he never persuaded himself that everything was over. By an error of judgement he was several minutes late in reaching Belgrave Square, as when first he dined there. Lady Poynter protested that she had given up hope of him. Her husband took him aside to enquire whether he found Gabarnac too sweet, because he had a bottle on which he would value expert opinion. It was all so like the night of fifteen months ago that Eric could not believe his passage was booked and his trunks packed. Lady Poynter began counting her guests with jerks of a fat, slow forefinger. "Two, three, five, seven, nine, eleven.… Then there's one more. Ah!"

She looked over Eric's shoulder as the door opened and the butler announced:

"Lady Barbara Neave."

Under the blaze of the chandelier and amid a chorus of "Babs darling!" "Hullo, Babs," Eric found no difficulty in remaining composed. She was the more surprised of the two, for, as soon as she caught sight of him, she turned to Lady Poynter, crying:

"Margaret, you must send him home at once! He's been very ill and he's no business to be out of bed!"

"But he's going to America to-morrow, he was telling us."

For a moment Barbara's face was blank. She recovered quickly and repeated: "To-morrow? I've simply lost all count of time."

"Including dinner, darling," said Lady Poynter, with a meaning glance at the clock.

It was all so familiar that Eric's sense of probability would have been outraged, if he had not been put next to Barbara.

"I'm very glad to see you again, Eric," she whispered: "Dr. Gaisford was so gloomy about you.… How long have you been allowed out?"

"Oh, a week."

"And you never told me? You never wrote or telephoned——"

Eric felt his face stiffening into unamiable lines as he remembered the agony of the first four days' silence.

"You never wrote or telephoned to me," he interrupted.

"The doctor told me I mustn't. He put me on my honour. I'm not sure that I didn't really break my word when I sent you those flowers." Her hand stole out and sought his under the table. "Don't you think it would have been kind to let me know? Don't you think it's possible I may have been worrying about you?"

Eric dropped his napkin and picked it up again for an excuse to escape her hand.

"Isn't it rather late in the day to begin worrying?" he asked. The girl winced and bit her lip. "I was only a bit overwrought," he added. "Now I'm rather less overwrought. There was nothing else to tell you."

"About America? I saw it in some paper, but I didn't bother about the date. I didn't think it necessary. Eric—Eric, you weren't going away without saying good-bye?"

He turned upon her so suddenly that she was frozen into silence.

"Would you have had anything to say, if you hadn't promised Gaisford not to communicate with me?"

"The usual things, Eric. I'd have told you what I was doing, I'd have sent you my love. If you're tired of that, darling——"

"Not that, Barbara!"

Her eyes opened wide with distress.

"Eric, what's the matter? What have I done? Mayn't I even call you 'darling' now?"

"Are you being quite honest, Barbara?"

"Thank you, Eric!"

"Have you nothing to tell me since last time?"

She looked at him imperiously and considered her words before speaking.

"The last time we met? Or the last time we corresponded? Which d'you mean? The last time we corresponded was when your secretary telephoned to thank me for the flowers. Before that, you sent me a message by her that you probably wouldn't be well enough to take me to your first night.… I'd have come round the evening before if Dr. Gaisford hadn't made me promise not to. I've always said that I'd come to you from the ends of the earth if you were ill. When I heard that you weren't allowed to see any one——"

"It wasn't as bad as that," Eric interrupted. "Gaisford let me get up for the first night. I—caught sight of you in the distance. But I left after the first interval."

4

From the end of the table Lady Poynter was making desperate attempts to attract Eric's attention.

"Mr. Lane, you're the only person who can tell us this——"

Barbara touched his wrist and nodded past him.

"Margaret's trying to speak to you," she said.

Eric galvanized his attention and turned with a murmur of apology.

"Mr. Lane, is it true that 'Mother's Son' was refused three—times?" Lady Poynter asked. She could not have been more righteously indignant if she had been judging the three denials of Saint Peter. "I've never heard of such a thing!"

"It wasn't quite in its present form," Eric explained. "The theme's the same, but I've rewritten almost every word."

Lady Poynter nodded triumphantly.

"Ah! Then I was right!" she informed her neighbour, and Eric was free to turn again to Barbara.

"Where had we got to?" he asked, after a moment's embarrassed silence.

"You came to the theatre after all. You saw me. You left after the first interval," she reminded him fearlessly. "As you seem to be—drawing an indictment, is that the phrase?—don't you think you'd better go on?"

"There's nothing more to say. Once or twice I wondered whether I should get home alive; and, on my soul, I prayed the whole time that I shouldn't.… I'm not drawing an indictment. I rather expected to hear from you.… It wasn't easy waiting.… As for America, I didn't see how it could possibly interest you.…" He broke off and whispered to himself, "God! what those days of waiting were like! I should have thought that, after what you'd been through…in common humanity——"

"And if I had nothing to tell you?" she interrupted.

For a moment Eric did not understand her. For all her self-possession, there were shadows under her eyes, and she was haggard as on the night when they first met. Jack's appearance, then, and their conversation together had made no difference…no difference one way or the other; she had not telephoned because there was nothing to tell him.

"I don't think I've anything more to say, Babs."

An arm interposed itself between them, and he looked down to see what was being put before him. To his surprise they had only reached the fish. He seemed to have been dining for an eternity!

"D'you care to hear what happened?" she asked.

"What d'you think I'm made of?" he muttered.

Barbara began eating her fish and telling her story at the same time. It was short, and she gave it in jerky little sentences. George Oakleigh had telephoned to say that he had two stalls for "Mother's Son" and would be delighted if she would dine and go with him.… They arrived and saw a certain number of friends.… At the end of the first act George went out to smoke a cigarette.… She had just begun talking to Gerry Deganway when she looked up and caught Jack's eye.… They were both so much surprised that they became praeternaturally natural. . . .

"I said: 'I've not seen you for a long time. I heard you were home.' He said: 'I got back a fortnight ago.' I asked him how he was and whether he'd had a very awful time in Germany.… And he laughed and said he was glad, on the whole, that it was all over, but that he was a fair German scholar now—or something of that kind—and he'd never have taken the trouble to learn another language if it hadn't been for the war.… I think he didn't find it easy to slip away; and I hate people leaning over me, when they're talking, so I asked him to sit down till George came back. Then the only thing we talked about was his being wounded and taken prisoner. I'd heard it all before, of course, but I felt I couldn't bear it if we both stopped talking.… Then George came along and shook hands.… And a moment later Jack went back to his place. You see, there wasn't very much to tell you."

"But is that all?"

"Absolutely all," she sighed.

Eric lapsed into silence, wishing that his brain were not half paralyzed. Then he glanced round the table, counting their numbers.

"Say you're too tired to play bridge, Babs," he begged. "Or say you want to talk to me before I go away; we're such common property here that no one will be surprised. It's our last chance; we may never meet again——"

"But, Eric——?"

"Yes!…I haven't told even my own people. This is not blackmail, because I arranged it all before I saw you; I never expected to see you again after that night at the theatre. I was just trying to save something out of the wreckage.… I'm going away nominally for three months, but I'm not coming back. I could have got on happily enough, if you'd never come into my life; but, once you were there, I couldn't get rid of you. I couldn't go on living in England with you half a mile away, carved out of my life…meeting you, seeing you—and knowing that it was all over. I've looked on you as my wife; if you ran away from me and lived with another man, I couldn't keep on a flat next to yours.… I felt it at the theatre; I felt I must clear out; I couldn't sink back to any passionless friendship. So I arranged to go away and stay away. After three months I shall say that I'm going for a holiday in South America—or Japan. I've been moving quickly the last few days. This morning—and this afternoon—I knew that everything I was doing was for the last time. And since I've seen you——"

He looked round apprehensively, fearful that he was being overheard.

"You're going away like this from your people? But they love you, Eric! They're so proud of you! You'll break their hearts!"

"I shouldn't have done it eighteen months ago—before you took my education in hand," he answered bitterly. "I've given myself heart and soul to you."

He hardly cared now whether the servants or his neighbours heard him, and Barbara had to press his knee to restrain him.

"Then will you do something for me?" she asked.

"What is it?"

"I want you to come back. Come back in three months, when they expect you."

"And then?"

"I'm not asking for myself! I'm asking for them. You can't be so wicked! It's not like you; I don't know you when you talk like this. You'd break their hearts!"

"I don't know that this comes well from you, Babs."

"Nothing comes well from me. But, if I can't undo the harm I've done, I may at least stop adding to it. If you don't come back…When it's too late, you'll never forgive yourself."

He shook his head and looked at her defiantly.

"You should have thought of that when we first met in this room. Only one thing will bring me back or keep me from going."

"Dear Eric, don't start that again!"

"Thanks! It doesn't amuse me to be strung up and cut down and strung up again.… I was facing things—till Lady Poynter shewed the devilish irony to arrange this meeting."

"Won't you come back for my sake?" she whispered.

"To be told that you're going to marry some one else?"

"You may not be told that. I don't know."

Eric was filled with a blaze of anger; he had to pause long before he could be sure of his voice.

"You still don't want to let me go? The pathetic invocation of my mother——"

Barbara tried to speak and then turned away with a helpless shrug. Eric woke from a trance to a thunder of opposing voices. Lady Poynter was retailing the secret history of the latest political crisis and the fall of the Coalition Government. His wheezing, well-fed host was attacking the Board of Trade with ill-disguised venom. "They've cut down imports to such an extent," he was saying, "that in six months' time you won't be able to get a cigar fit to smoke. I went to my man this morning—he's a fellow I've dealt with all my life, and my father before me—he promised me half a cabinet—and then made a favour of it!" Another voice enquired in a drawl: "What is it exactly that you're lecturing on, Mr. Lane?"

Barbara's head was still turned from him, and he resigned himself to the reshuffle, noticing with surprise that a finger-bowl had been placed in front of him. He could not remember having eaten anything since the fish. And he had been drinking the rather sickly Gabarnac without tasting it.

"You asked my opinion of this wine, sir," he said to Lord Poynter, belatedly attentive; in a moment he was swallowed up in a discussion which dragged its way through dessert until Lady Poynter pushed back her chair and rustled majestically to the door.

She was hardly outside the room before his host sidled conspiratorially into the empty chair next him.

"Do you know anything of still champagne?" he enquired darkly, as though he were giving a pass-word.

"I've drunk it, of course," answered Eric.

"Of course?" Lord Poynter echoed. "My dear friend, not one man in twenty thousand of your generation has even heard of still champagne.…"

It was all wonderfully like that first night fifteen months before. Lord Poynter explained for the tenth time that he never allowed coffee to be brought in until the port wine had circulated for twenty minutes. Not for the first time he apologized for his brandy, retailed the tragedy of the last bottle of Waterloo and, like a sluggard dragging himself from bed, reluctantly moved the adjournment.

They arrived in the drawing-room to find three tables set for bridge. Though he had asked her to talk to him, Eric was relieved to find Barbara already playing; he had nothing more to say. There was nothing, indeed, to keep a man whose train left Euston before noon next day. He waited till Lady Poynter was dummy and then asked her to excuse him.

"Well, I expect you've a great deal to do," she said, shaking hands reluctantly.

"Oh, Eric, aren't you going to take me home?"

Barbara threw out the question casually, but she found time to look up and beseech him with her eyes.

"Are you going to be long?" he asked in the same tone.

"They're a game and sixteen. If you'll smoke one cigarette…"

In the next hand Barbara was dummy. After spreading out her cards, she looked round the room, picked up a review and two library novels from a side table and, after a cursory glance, walked to the piano. The bridge-players looked up, as she began to sing; an impatient, "It's you to play, Lady Poynter," passed unheeded; and, one after another, they laid down their hands.

"My dear, why don't you use that beautiful voice of yours more?" asked Lady Poynter, as she ended.

Barbara's face was in shadow, but Eric could see that she was looking across the room at him.

"Oh, not one person in ten million ever wants me to sing," she laughed, as she came back to the table.

Five minutes later she opened her purse, pushed a note across to Lady Poynter and came up to Eric with a smile of gratitude.

"I hope I haven't been long," she said. "Shall we see if we can find a taxi?"

5

They crossed Belgrave Square and reached Hyde Park Corner in silence. Then Eric felt a drag at his arm, and Barbara whispered: "I'm so tired!"

"I'm afraid there's not a taxi in sight," he said. "Shall we go by tube to Dover Street?"

"We may meet a taxi. Eric, d'you remember the first time——"

He shook free of her arm, as though it were eating into his flesh.

"You felt the evening wouldn't be complete without that—after 'Butterfly'?" he asked.

Barbara stood still, swaying slightly until he caught her wrist.

"I'm shutting my eyes and thinking of the past, the time when we were happy," she gasped. "I can't face the present."

"You can face it as philosophically as I can," he answered. "If love were stronger than vanity…I don't blame you. I only blame myself because I was fool enough to believe a woman's word, fool enough to think that, if I gave her everything, she might give me something in return; that, if I shewed her enough magnanimity, I might shame her into being magnanimous. I was hopelessly uneducated in those days."

Barbara held up her hands as though each word struck her in the face.

"D'you want to part like this?" she whispered. "Wouldn't you rather remember the times when I came to you and cried—and you made me happy? I came to you when I was ill; and you just kissed me or stroked my forehead, and I was better. And once or twice, when you were ill, I came to you and laid your head on my breast.… Wouldn't you rather remember that, darling?"

"If I could only forget it, I shouldn't regret so bitterly the day when we first met."

She swayed again and caught hold of the wooden standard of a porter's rest. There was still no taxi in sight; Eric felt her pulse and dived into his pocket for a flask. He had never before noticed the rest of its inscription in honour of R. A. Slaney, for twenty-six years Member of Parliament for Shrewsbury.…

"Take a sip of this," he ordered.

She drank obediently and thanked him with her eyes.

"I'm better. The first time we met I was fainting in the train. Before I knew you.… And I loved you and dreamed of your love for me. I used to hear your voice.… No one will ever look after me as you've done; no one will ever understand or love or make allowances for me——"

As he restored the flask to his pocket, Eric saw that the time was within a few minutes of midnight; in less than twenty-four hours he would be at Liverpool; in less than twenty-four minutes he would have lost the thing that was dearest to him in life.

"Barbara, you've seen Jack," he said. "He had his chance; he neglected it. There's the answer we've been waiting for all these weary months. I don't want to worry you when you're ill, but I can't charge my own conscience with the knowledge that I've left undone anything which will stop the present tragedy."

Though she opened her eyes slowly, there was now no trace of faintness or exhaustion.

"He never had a chance! Eric, if you'll think for one moment—in a crowded theatre, with people listening all round——"

"He could have written the moment he left Germany. He could have written or seen you any time since that night. On the night itself he could have asked you to let him come and see you. He didn't raise a finger! And you still hypnotize yourself with one excuse after another—How much longer are you going on?"

"I don't know, Eric." She covered her eyes for a moment and then rose to her feet. "I'm bound in honour, as I've told you a hundred times. When I know definitely——"

"Anything you know will have to be known to-night."

"But if you found a cable waiting for you in New York——"

"It would tell me what I know already—plus the fact that your vanity had been convinced in spite of itself."

"I prefer 'honour' to 'vanity.'"

"Hadn't we better leave 'honour' out of the discussion?"

She looked at him for a moment, her mouth tightly shut; then, declining his arm, she began walking slowly eastward. Opposite Bath House Eric hailed an empty taxi and told the driver to take them to Berkeley Square.

"You wouldn't like me to drop you in Ryder Street?" Barbara asked.

"Not even to gratify your love of artistic finish."

"How you hate me!" she whispered with a catch in her breath.

"No, I love you as much as ever; I need you more than ever. Whatever happens to you, I wish you all happiness. You once undertook my education, but I can tell you that you'll never find the happiness I'm wishing you till you learn to sink yourself and think of other people."

Barbara looked at him like a startled animal, then looked away.

"Haven't I sunk myself, haven't I thought of Jack before any one else for two and a half years?" she whispered.

"No, you've thought solely of yourself—with Jack as a limelight. At this moment you're thinking less of Jack or me than of your amour propre."

"You must be thankful to be rid of me after the way I've sacrificed you to my vanity."

"You'll outgrow your vanity."

"Perhaps Jack still wants me in spite of the way I've behaved to him."

"Perhaps so. I shan't be here to see."

The taxi turned into Berkeley Street, and Eric held out his hand.

"Good-bye, Barbara," he said.

"Won't you come in for a moment?"

"No, thank you."

"Eric, you must! There's something I want to say to you! Eric, I beg you to come in."

He opened the door without answering and stood on the kerb, ready to help her out. She delayed so long that the driver turned curiously round.

"Eric, please!" she entreated.

"Have you your latch-key?"

She gave a choking sob, as she mounted the steps, and Eric set his teeth; suddenly losing control, she gripped him by the arm.

"Eric, you're not going to-morrow!"

"Indeed I am."

"When?"

"That's immaterial. Good-bye."

He returned to the taxi and pressed himself into the corner, staring ahead so that he should not see the familiar ermine coat on the door-step. Barbara fumbled blindly with the lock and spun round, as the taxi began slowly to turn. As the driver changed speed, she dropped her key and ran twenty yards down the square, crying "Eric!"; but the grinding of the gears drowned her voice.

The tail-light dwindled to a ruby pin-point and vanished.…

The telephone-bell was ringing, as Eric entered his flat. He unhooked the receiver and tossed it on to his bed; but after a moment's silence there broke out a persistent metallic buzzing, while the bells in the other rooms rang with all their accustomed clarity. He began to undress; but the merciless noise racked his nerves. There was nothing for it but to tie a handkerchief round the clapper of the bell.…

Then he threw himself in shirt and trousers on the bed and buried his face in his hands.

THE END