use lust was not good enough, the Celt invented romance."
--SHANE LESLIE: _The End of a Chapter._

THE EDUCATION OF ERIC LANE

CHAPTER ONE

AN EXPERIMENT IN EMOTION

". . . A genial . . . bachelor, whom the outside world called
selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him. . . ."
OSCAR WILDE: "THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY."

1

Eric Lane, visible only from ear to chin above the water-line, peered
through the steam of the bathroom at a travelling-clock on his
dressing-table. The bath would have been improved by another half
handful of verbena salts; but, even lacking this, the water was still
too hot to be lightly dismissed with an aggrieved gurgle down the
waste-pipe. It was an added self-indulgence to know that, if he lay
gently boiling himself for more than another minute, he would be late
for dinner with Lady Poynter; but, if any one had to suffer, let it be
Lady Poynter. It was not his fault that the rehearsal of "The
Bomb-Shell" had dragged on until after seven; something had to be
sacrificed--the letters which his secretary had left for him to sign, or
the hot bath, or the cigarette and glass of sherry as he dressed, or (in
the last resort and quite obviously) Lady Poynter. He had already
foregone a cocktail, which would have made him two minutes later.

As the water began to cool, Eric threw a towel over his shoulders, wiped
the steam from the face of the clock and began to dry himself slowly,
looking round with ever-fresh delight at the calculated ingenuity of
comfort in his new flat. It was his reward for the successful play. For
ten years after coming down from Oxford he had lived in the Temple,
first with Jack Waring and afterwards by himself; lonely, hard-working
years, when he had painfully learned the value of money and time. With
one play running indefatigably, another rehearsing and a third in sight
of completion, he had decided to construct a frame better suited to his
new position. Ten years ago he had dreamed at Oxford of a day when he
would burst upon London as a new young Byron; and, when the dream was
almost forgotten, he found himself living in its midst. He was courted
and quoted, photographed and "paragraphed"; Lady Poynter and the rich,
malcontent world which aspired to intelligence humbly invited him to
dine, and it did not matter whether she wanted to pay him homage or to
exhibit him as her latest celebrity. It was time to leave