withdrew her arm and walked for some time without speaking.

"I'm sorry if I'm compromising you with your friends," she said at
length.

"And whether you compromise yourself doesn't matter?"

"I suppose I'm used to it," she sighed; then, with one of her April
changes, the sigh turned into a provocative laugh. "If _you_ don't mind
being compromised by _me_, I'd make you write a _wonderful_ play. My
technique's so good. All you have to do is to fall in love with me----"

"I shan't have the opportunity," he interrupted. "We meet to-night at
Mrs. Shelley's----"

"And we were so _positive_ that we weren't going!" she murmured. "You
don't want to see me again?"

Eric hailed a passing taxi.

"I like meeting you," he told her frankly enough. "You amuse me--and you
interest me enormously. But I've work to do . . . for one thing. . . ."

She seated herself in the taxi and held out her hand through the window.

"You might come and call for me to-night," she suggested.

Eric shook his head. He was shy of entering a house to which he had not
been officially admitted, confronting a strange butler, being pushed
into a room to wait for her, meeting and explaining himself to Lord
Crawleigh or one of the brothers, who would look superciliously at
"Babs' latest capture." . . .

"I'll meet you at Mrs. Shelley's," he said.

The hand was withdrawn, and he could see her biting her lip.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"There's no need to be."

"I was apologizing to myself--for giving you _another_ opportunity of
refusing something I asked you to do for me."

Eric walked back to his flat, puzzled and irritated. The girl was
intolerably spoiled; nothing that you did was right, there was
altogether too much wear and tear in trying to adapt yourself to her
moods. . . .

Even if you wanted to. . . .

3

The rehearsal, despite Barbara, was over in good time, and Eric could
lie unhurriedly in his bath without fear of being late for Mrs.
Shelley's dinner. Two days of his holiday had already slipped away, and
he had made little mark on the work which he had schemed to do.
To-morrow he would start in earnest. . . .

Barbara. . . . He could not remember what had set him thinking about
her. She looked desperately ill, but that was not his fault, nor could
he cure her; which disposed of Barbara. . . . What she needed was some
one who would pull her up, steady her, master her. . . .
Unfortunately--for her--he could not spare the ti