her, at least with somebody. His sister's telephone message had
started the train of thought; he was looking forward to the week-end and
the opportunity of meeting Agnes Waring. The time would come--if there
were many hosts like Lord Poynter and if they all talked "Hibernia" port
and Tuileries brandy, it would come very soon--when he would grow tired
of being pushed from one house to another and made to talk for the
diversion of sham intellectuals. In this, at least, he had had enough of
his triumphal progress; there was rest and companionship in being
married, it was the greatest of all adventures. . . . He wondered how
Agnes would acquit herself at a party like this; he would not like
people to cease inviting him because they felt bound to invite a
tiresome wife as well. . . .

Gaymer, too, was growing impatient of his uncle's cellar Odyssey and
was calling aloud for a cigar, while he scoured the side-board for
Benedictine.

"They'll be wondering where we've got to," said Lord Poynter guiltily,
recalling his mind from a distance and lapsing into silence. And Eric
felt compunction in helping to cut short the man's one half-hour of
happiness in the day.

In the drawing-room they found the four women seated at a bridge-table,
disagreeing over the score. Lady Poynter archly reproached her husband
and Gaymer for "monopolizing poor Mr. Lane"; there was a shuffling of
feet, cutting, changing of chairs, and Mrs. Shelley crept to the door,
whispering that she had to start work early next day or she would not
dream of breaking up such a delightful party; she was promptly arrested
and brought back by Mrs. O'Rane with the offer of Lady Maitland's
brougham, which was to call for her at eleven. After an exhibition of
half-hearted self-effacement by all, a new four was made up, and Eric
found himself contentedly alone on a sofa with Lord Poynter mid-way
between him and the table, uncertain whether to watch the game or
venture on more conversation. He had whispered: "I can tell you a story
about that cigar you're smoking . . .," when, at the end of the second
hand, Barbara looked slowly round, pushed back her chair and walked to
the sofa.

"Thinking over your wasted opportunities?" she asked, as she sat down
beside Eric.

"There are none," he answered lazily. "I've been a great success
to-night. I can see that our host won't rest content till I've promised
to dine here three times a week to drink his port; I've been good value