ght resentfully
over his ten years of journalism; then, with a warm rush of
satisfaction, he saw the elaborate little flat in Ryder Street, the
bathroom poster of "A Divorce Has Been Arranged," the envelopes from his
agent Grierson, containing cheques for--what _would_ they be for?--the
invitations, the pleasant hum of work and stir of interest as shewn in
letters from country clergymen who objected to his use of the word "God"
in a comedy of manners, the deference paid him when he was invited out
to be spoiled and petted, the easy triumphs. . . .

"If I had my life over again," he answered slowly, "I should
alter--nothing."

Lord Ettrick looked at him with raised eyebrows, chewing his under-lip
reflectively.

"I wonder how long you'll say that," he murmured.

A page-boy threaded his way to the table and stood bashfully at a
distance with a tarnished salver pressed against his buttons.

"Wanted on the 'phone, sir," he whispered.

Eric rose resignedly and followed the page to a dark, ill-ventilated box
behind the porters' desk in the hall.

"Hullo!"

"Is that Eric? Say what you like, my staff-work's extraordinarily
efficient!" Barbara's voice rippled into laughter. "You weren't at your
flat, I just _divined_ that you'd be lunching at your club. I looked in
_Who's Who_ to see which it was. . . . How are you, Eric, dear? I
haven't seen or heard of you since last night."

Eric's utterance hardened and became precise.

"I was asleep then; and I'm at lunch now."

"Who are you lunching with?" she enquired with unabashed interest.

"Oh, nobody that matters! What is it, Lady Barbara? What do you want, I
mean?"

"I want to talk to you. Don't you _like_ talking to me?"

"At the proper time and in the proper place. I say, you know, this is
becoming a little bit tiresome."

There was a short pause; then a crestfallen voice murmured:

"I'm sorry, Eric. I'm truly sorry. I apologize."

"Lady Barbara!" he cried.

There was only a dull click, a silence and then a brisk nasal voice
saying, "Number, please?"

Eric strode wrathfully back to the coffee-room.

"You can't do right with that damned girl," he muttered.

His companions were already paying their bills, so he abandoned his
cheese and walked upstairs with them to the bright biscuit-coloured
card-room overlooking the gardens of Buckingham Palace. While the others
drank their coffee, he tried to write a very short, very simple note
which somehow rejected hi