felt ashamed of his rasping harshness.

"I don't know. That particular song always makes me cry. In spite of
that," he looked at her, and smiled to himself. "No, I'm going to be
very self-sacrificing. You said you wanted me to take you home, and I
will--if you'll come at once."

"But it's not half-past nine yet."

"I don't care. My dear child, d'you think I can't see that you're tired,
ill, over-excited----"

"It makes the night so long, Eric! But--thank you! I was beginning to
think you were a prig, but I believe you're a saint!" The wistfulness
left her eyes, and she smiled mischievously. "In moments of emotion how
all our habits and practices break down! 'My dear child,' 'My dear
child,' 'D'you think I can't see?' 'My dear child,' 'Tired, ill,
over-excited.'"

"I'm sorry, Lady Barbara."

He tried to rise, but she pulled him back.

"You baby! Can't I make fun of you _ever_? It meant so much--just that
little change in your voice when you forgot to be inhuman. I prefer
'dear child' to 'Lady Barbara' any day. Do you find it so hard to be
affectionate, Eric?"

"I haven't tried. It would be impossible with you. I--I don't understand
you. When I was dressing for dinner----"

"You thought you did? I'm so glad you thought of me, when you were
dressing for dinner; I've a sort of feeling that it's not your practice
to think of me when you're dressing for dinner."

"I don't imagine my affection makes any great difference in your life,"
he interrupted stiffly.

"Dear Eric, let me laugh at you sometimes! It's good for you and it's
ever so good for me. It isn't as if I'd laughed so very much lately. . . .
I _will_ come home and I'll go _straight_ to bed. But--don't be too
hard on me, Eric."

Her voice was trembling, and her eyes had again filled with tears.

"May I say that I'm 'not in the habit' of being hard on people? But--I
don't understand you."

"Ah, now you're repeating yourself," she threw back flippantly over her
shoulder, as she went to bid Mrs. Shelley good-night. "I'm telling
Marion I've got a headache."

Eric felt that he was slipping into the practice of letting people make
a fool of him. . . .

4

Though it was a fine night, they sought in vain for a taxi and had to
walk the whole way from Chelsea to Berkeley Square, Barbara with her arm
through Eric's and her hand in his, leaning against him.

"I'm going away on Saturday," she reminded him, as they entered Eaton
Square.

"High time, too