ouldn't stand by itself--or come in useful, anyway."

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow."

The man looked at him in patient surprise.

"We supply all the pictures for '_The World and His Wife_'," he
explained. "They 'phoned through to know if we could let them have
up-to-date photographs of you and Lady Barbara Neave----"

"But you spoke of an engagement."

"Isn't it true, then?"

"This sort of thing is really intolerable!" Eric cried. "I don't want to
tell other people how to run their business, but in common decency your
firm might wait for an official announcement in '_The Times_' instead of
circulating these rumours----"

"It's only a rumour, then?" said the interviewer blankly, pocketing his
note-book.

As he walked to Berkeley Square, Eric decided that, by telling Barbara
of his encounter, he would annoy her without bringing relief to himself.
The announcement, when it came, would be made with imposing ceremony
after a meeting between his father and Lord Crawleigh, an adjustment of
religious differences and a distressingly material discussion of
settlements. There would be ponderous debates and irritating
disagreements; Barbara and he both needed a respite for recuperation. . . .

"I telephoned three times this morning," said Eric, as he was shewn into
the drawing-room. "I did so want to talk to you! I was so happy I
couldn't sleep."

"I couldn't sleep, either," said Barbara huskily, holding out one hand
and covering her eyes with the other.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?"

"If you like. It's your right now."

Eric let fall her hand and drew back, biting his lip.

"That's not a very pretty thing to say, darling," he murmured.

"I'm sorry. . . . I've been haunted all night. It seemed as if God
_must_ strike me down. . . . And, whenever I fell asleep, Jack was
there, reproaching me, mocking me----"

"He's had his chance," Eric interrupted sharply. "You start absolutely
free."

"You mean he's--rejected me?"

After the tragic talk of God's striking her down for taking His name in
vain, Eric could not attune himself readily to a whimper of wounded
vanity. Barbara's dramatic intensity had hitherto been convincing, and
he had never imagined that she was unhappy because she had offered
herself to a man and he had repelled her.

"I mean it's--all over. You've no reason to reproach yourself, Babs. . . .
I want to talk to you about seeing your father----"

She stopped him with a shudder, and Eric fou