nvelope to her, but he had nothing to put inside it.

"_As if I'd murdered her._" It made it no easier that Barbara had begged
him not to cast her off; wives sometimes begged men to run away with
them. Until she drove the burning cigarette-end into her hand, crying
out that she was fighting for her life, he had not understood her
passionate need of him; yet, when her need was most passionate, there
was something in her life to which she would subordinate him. . . . The
proposal had been checked on his lips.

The telephone was poignantly silent. She would never ring him up again
to tell him her plans for the day, never ramble again through shops and
exhibitions, never again ring him up to bid him good-night. The Thursday
dinner, the Friday luncheon, their notes at the week-end, the sweet
pride of possession, her glorious companionship in his cloistered life
were over. For no one else had he ever taken trouble; now he was thrown
back on an insufficient self. To-morrow or the next day she might have a
headache; never again would she give him a tired smile and say, "Won't
you charm the pain away?"

"_As if I'd murdered her._" Eric crossed the hall to his bedroom. The
front door was still open, and on the mat lay Barbara's scarf. He was
glad of an excuse to postpone undressing and spent five minutes lovingly
packing it in tissue paper for his secretary to carry round. It would be
savagery not to write a note. . . .

"_Dearest, you left this behind. I hope you didn't take cold without
it. It seems ironical for me to say I'll do anything I can for you.
But it's true. Eric._"

He rose after four hours' sleepless tossing and distracted himself by
drawing cheques until the post was delivered. There were many letters,
but none from Barbara. He read the _Times_, dictated to his secretary,
handed her the parcel for Berkeley Square and climbed uneasily out of
bed. Though he dawdled over his dressing, there was no telephone call to
reward him; and, as the Crawleighs were spending Christmas in London, he
would not meet her in the train.

Half-way to Winchester he grew drowsy and fancied himself in his dreams
once more kneeling on the floor beside the sofa, with his arms round
Barbara's shoulders. "_As if I'd murdered her._" His lips were moving,
as he awoke, and he wondered whether the haunting refrain had escaped
him.

His sister was waiting for him at Winchester, and he greeted her with a
confused affection that s