urtain went up on the second act, Eric scribbled a note of
congratulation and apology and sent it to Manders by the hand of a
programme seller. Then he put on his hat and coat and stole out of the
theatre.

3

The next morning Eric summoned his solicitor and divested himself of all
domestic ties and obligations as completely as if he were leaving for
the Front. A power of attorney was to be prepared; the books were to be
stored, the wine sold and the flat let if he had not returned from
America within a stated period. . . .

"You see, I've more money than I can spend," Eric explained. "It's well
invested, so that, if I never do another stroke of work, I shall have
_something_ to live on. Well, my health's gone to pieces, and I want a
long rest and change. This is my opportunity. I'm thirty-three; and I've
seen nothing of the world outside Europe. If I start by touring from end
to end of America . . .."

He was almost carried away by his own enthusiasm in sketching out the
years of wandering which lay ahead. Central America, South America, the
Pacific Islands, New Zealand, Australia, Japan, China, the Dutch East
Indies, Burmah, India. . . .

"This is all in confidence, of course," he interrupted himself to say.
"I haven't breathed a word to my people."

He lacked courage to tell them that he was never coming back. It would
be easier if the advertised three months were dragged out to six, the
six to twelve. The shock would be mitigated; and he would escape a
scene.

When the solicitor was gone, Eric stumbled out of bed and unlocked the
safe in his dining-room. There was an infinity of papers to be destroyed
and letters to be written. Lady Maitland attacked him at the
ill-disguised prompting of her own conscience:

"_Why have you neglected us for so long? I hoped to see you at the
theatre last night, but Colonel Grayle told me that he thought you were
ill. I'm so sorry; and I hope it's not serious. When you're able to get
about again, will you telephone and suggest yourself for dinner? I want
to talk to you about your play, which I liked quite enormously._ . . ."

So he was to be lionized again--with no one to share his triumphs. . . .
The next letter was from Mrs. Shelley; the next from Lady Poynter,
proposing a date in the following week and asking him to telephone.

"You can accept all these for me," he told his secretary, "or as many as
don't clash with anything else. I--I've got to say good-bye to a lot