threw a crushing arm round the girl's waist.

"Come on, Babs. You're looking better than you did," she said. "I _told_
you you'd fall in love with him," she added, as they walked upstairs.

"There's nothing much the matter with Babs," commented Gaymer meaningly,
as he shut the door and settled into a chair beside Lord Poynter.

4

As Barbara's voice faded and died away, an air of guilty quiet settled
upon the dining-room. Eric tidied himself a place among her wreckage of
crumpled napkin, sloppy finger-bowl, nut-shells and cigarette-ash. For
ten minutes he could rest; conversation with either of his companions
threatened to be as difficult as it was unnecessary. John Gaymer, in
upbringing, intellect, habits of mind and method of speech, belonged to
a self-centred world which cheerfully defied subjugation by a brigade of
Byrons, reinforced by a division of Wesleys and an army of Rousseaus;
for him there was one school and no other, one college and no other, one
regiment, club, restaurant, music-hall, tailor, hairdresser and no
other. Eric was always meeting John Gaymers and never penetrating below
the sleek, well-bred and uninterested exterior; they were politely
repellent, as though an intrusion from outside would disturb their
serenity and the advantageous bargain which they had struck with life;
it might cause them to think, and thought was a synonym of death. The
Flying Corps, at first sight, was an unassimilating environment for a
John Gaymer, but this one had not gone in alone and he had certainly not
been assimilated. A closely knit and self-isolated group had formed
itself there, as it could be trusted to form itself in a house-party or
under the shadow of the guillotine, genially unapproachable and
uncaringly envied.

To shew his fairness and breadth of mind Eric tested the specimen under
his hand with politics, the war and a current libel action, only to be
rewarded at the third venture. Before surrendering to his desire for
silence and rest, he glanced under lowered lids at his host's
blue-tinged, loosely-hanging cheeks. Conscientiously silent when his
wife wished to discuss literature with her new discoveries, Lord Poynter
became dutifully loquacious when exposed defenceless to the task of
entertaining them and took refuge in gusty, nervous geniality or odd,
sly confidences on matters of no moment.

"Aren't you drinking any port wine?" he demanded of Eric after brooding
indecision.

"Thank you, yes.