n she lost her heart. . . .

But it were useless to fall in love with Eric if she could not make him
return her love. . . .

Thursday seemed as far away as the throne of God in that ghastly
nightmare. . . . She wrote Mrs. Shelley a letter which she hoped would
not read so transparently false as it seemed to her in writing.

"_Dearest Marion, I feel so rude for never having apologized either for
running away myself so early or for dragging Eric Lane away from your
delightful party. I was feeling dreadfully tired. I'm in bed now; in
fact, I've hardly been out of bed since I came here on Saturday, and he
put a pistol to my head and insisted on taking me home. I shall be in
London for one or two nights next week. Will you shew that you forgive
us by inviting us again? Your affectionate Barbara._"

It seemed a pity not to exploit a good idea to the full, and she next
wrote to her cousin Amy Loring.

"_You said the other day that you had never met Eric Lane, though he
was a great friend of Jim's. He was at Margaret Poynter's the other day
when I was there. Would you like me to invite him to dine one night next
week (I shall be up in London for two or three days)? Ring me up between
tea and dinner on Thursday. . . ._"

There remained Colonel Grayle, who had jerked out, as she left the
"Divorce" with George Oakleigh: "Clever play! Rather like to meet the
author. Decent feller, I believe." If she met him again, she could offer
to bring about a meeting. . . .

It was regrettable that she and Eric knew so few people in common.

3

Before leaving her dentist, Barbara telephoned to remind Eric of his
promise to dine with her. His answering voice was almost audibly guilty,
for the engagement had been allowed to fade from his mind, though his
watchful secretary would have seen to it later that he kept his
appointment.

When he arrived, the house was eerily dark and deserted. The door was
opened by a girl in a black dress, presumably--from the absence of cap
and apron--Barbara's own maid, and he was conducted through a twilit
hall where the great chandeliers were draped in dusting-sheets, up a
side staircase and over more dusting-sheets to the door of the boudoir.
Here the evidence of desolation ended in vast bowls of autumn roses, a
log fire, blazing electric lights and the beginnings of inevitable
untidiness--ripped envelopes on the floor, a silk cloak in one chair and
gloves in another and, on the hearth-rug, a chinchi