Eric smiled to himself, as he pocketed the letter and prospected for
note-paper and an unoccupied table.

"_Your picnic dinner sounds most attractive_," he wrote. "_I shall be
delighted to come. It is so characteristic of you not to mention a time
that I hesitate to point out the omission. I shall come at 8.0, unless
you tell me to the contrary. And I shall insist on your singing.
Good-bye. Take care of yourself._"

He tossed the letter into the box in the hall, but took it out again
immediately. There was too much idle curiosity in the house already. No
one would accept his picture of Babs as he saw her; assuredly no one
would believe his account of their relationship, if he were in a mood or
state to give it. He put on an overcoat and walked, with the confirmed
Londoner's shivering hatred of the country in autumn, to the tumble-down
shanty which did duty as general store and post office to the hamlet of
Lashmar.

Once nerved to face the wet roads and penetrating chill, Eric decided to
acquire merit by walking through the woods and meeting the church party
on its return. Lady Lane had already shewn off her "sailor son" to the
exiguous congregation; it was the turn of "my eldest son, the author,
you know," to submit. He could hear all about Basil and generally
popularize himself so that he would be allowed to leave that night
without protest.

His mood was so radiant that he achieved his effect before the end of
luncheon. As Geoff drove him to the station, he almost seemed to have
enjoyed himself and to be leaving with regret. . . . Winchester,
Basingstoke, Vauxhall, the river and the Houses of Parliament gave him
successive thrills of pleasure, as though he had been away from England
for years. Pride of possession seized him when he entered Ryder Street;
as he shut the front door and looked at his black-framed prints and
lustre bowls, he felt like a miser locking himself within his
treasure-house to feast his eyes on the signs of his material victory
over fate. So many people allowed life to control them instead of
controlling life. And, when they had failed through their own inertia,
they invented an external destiny to save their faces. Man created God
to have somewhere to put the blame. . . .

There was an average pile of letters on his library table. Lady Poynter
hoped to get some rather amusing people to lunch on Thursday; could he
bear to come again? _So_ sweet of him, if he would. Mrs. O'Rane wrote
vaguely