ds me of a musical comedy," Eric murmured
to Sybil. "Where one goes, all go:

"_Oh, we're all of us a-going back to Lon-don,
Over ocean; that's the notion_. . . .

"Song and dance. Curtain. Who's the fellow in uniform?"

"Mr. Benyon. A friend of the Warings," Sybil answered. "You're not
going to be patronizing, _are_ you?"

Eric pulled up and banished the ill-humour induced generally by the
sleepiness of the country and, in particular, by that tepid bath-water.
He had looked forward to the week-end, he proposed to enjoy himself;
there was no need even to ask where he had been placed at dinner. Sybil,
at nineteen, worshipped every word and movement in Agnes Waring at
twenty-eight--her way of laughing and speaking, her phraseology, her
mental outlook; every opinion was introduced with the words, "Agnes
says----" Two years before, when the infatuation was in its perfervid
youth, Sybil had made up her mind that her brother was to marry Agnes;
the determination was still so strong that she was uneasy at the
presence of young Benyon.

Eric had no strong view either way; Agnes was fair, slight and
small-featured with observant grey eyes and a good deal of detached
humour. Since the incubation of his first unsuccessful play, he had
argued out every character and situation with her; when feminine
psychology was in dispute, her ruling was accepted without cavil. More
than once, as they splashed conversationally through the Lashmar woods,
he had felt that she gave even a self-sufficient bachelor something that
he lacked and would always lack; and, whenever the ubiquitous, dry
celibacy of the Thespian smoking-room oppressed him, his thoughts
drifted to Agnes Waring and a doll's house somewhere on the Eaton
estate, with one table, two chairs and an avalanche of green silk
cushions in the drawing-room. . . . He was not in love with her; but,
when Sybil telephoned to find whether he was coming to the country for
the week-end, he had resolved to retouch his conception of Agnes. For
the first time in his life he could not only afford to marry; he could
regard marriage from the standpoint of an eligible bachelor. If he was
not in love with Agnes, he was in love with love. . . .

Distant voices wakened him from his reverie, and he found the long, low
white-and-gold drawing-room buzzing with congratulations. Benyon had
been to the "Divorce" three nights before; old Nares rubbed his hands,
coughed and described a proud momen