s best efforts of phrasing. He had torn up four
unsatisfactory drafts when Lord Ettrick threw away his cigar and asked
whether any one was walking towards the Privy Council.

"I'm only scribbling one note," Eric answered.

What he was always in danger of forgetting was that Barbara was really
only a child; she had begun to speak with a delightful ripple of
laughter, and he had driven it from her voice. When she apologized,
there was something hurt, something very much surprised--as though he
had seen her smiling and slapped the smile away.

"_Please forgive me_," he wrote. "_I didn't mean to be rude._"

5

Before deciding whether to send his letter by hand, Eric ascertained
that, by posting it, he could be sure of its reaching its destination by
the last delivery. Then he walked through the Park with Lord Ettrick,
left him at the door of the Privy Council Office and returned home for
an hour's work before rehearsal. On leaving the Regency, he came back to
Ryder Street and dressed for dinner. His own letters clattered into
their wire cage at a quarter past eight, and, before sitting down to
dinner, he transferred the telephone to his dining-room. The child was
unlikely to refuse so open an invitation to ring up and say that all was
well. . . .

There was no call during dinner, no call as he worked in the
smoking-room with the telephone and lamp on a table at his elbow, no
call when he went to bed, though he lay reading for half-an-hour after
his usual time, to be ready for her. The morning brought a pencilled
note ("Surprisingly tidy hand," Eric commented, "seeing what she's
like"), instinct with a new aloofness and restraint. "_After your
refreshingly plain hint that I was a nuisance to you, I determined that
you should not have occasion to suffer from my importunity. You may
lunch with us on Saturday, if you like. And I shall be very glad indeed
to see you, but you must not feel that you are doing this to please me.
I SAY as you THINK: that I have no claim on you. Barbara._"

Eric smiled indulgently and tossed the note into a despatch-box before
ringing for his secretary. He must be more careful in future. . . .

When he looked at his engagement-book on Saturday morning, he found that
Barbara had named no hour; which was characteristic of her. When he
telephoned to the house, there was no answer; which--by no great stretch
of calumny--was characteristic of the house in which she lived. Ninety
per cent. of th