ress-cuttings. He could not resist the temptation
to glance at two or three of his favourite notices before opening the
letters. The critics had treated him kindly, for he had been a critic
himself and had not scrupled to secure a good press; but mere flattery
never kept a bad play running. . . . He decided that he was going to
enjoy his dinner with the Poynters, though the chiming of the clock in
the hall warned him that he could not hope to be dressed and in Belgrave
Square by a quarter past eight. The new Byron would achieve an effect,
if he gained the reputation of _always_ being ten minutes late for
everything; but the pose offended Eric's sense of tidiness. Signing his
letters, he ripped open half-a-dozen envelopes and glanced at the
contents, pushed the news-cutting album neatly into its shelf and
hurried into his bedroom with a glass of sherry in his hand.

It was time to order a taxi, and a tall Scotch parlour-maid, of whom he
lived in secret dread, came in answer to his ring. He would have
preferred a man, but men were unprocurable in war-time. He let fall a
word of instruction on the correct way of laying out dress-clothes and
was beginning to get ready in earnest, when the telephone-bell rang
simultaneously in bedroom, bathroom, dining-room and smoking-room. As he
finished his sherry, he tried to remember where he had left the
instrument.

"Hul-lo," he cried, exploring to see whether the bathroom chair was dry.

"That you, Ricky? Sybil speaking. I say, are you coming down on
Saturday? You've not been here for months, and we want to see you."

Eric sighed patiently before he remembered that the sigh was unlikely to
carry as far as Winchester. The prophet could look for affection in his
own country and in his own house; he would not find honour.

"If you feel I'm essential to the family happiness----" he began.

"You're not. But we've got some people dining on Saturday--Agnes Waring
amongst others. You can bring your work with you. . . . Say you'll come,
like a good boy, and don't be selfish."

"Well, I might," Eric answered. "Good-bye, Sybil."

"You needn't be in such a hurry! What are you doing to-night?"

"I'm being--_extraordinarily_--late for dinner with some people I don't
know," he answered.

His sister's voice in reply was slightly aggrieved.

"I wouldn't detain you for worlds. I only wanted to know if you'd seen a
full-page photograph of yourself----"

"In the 'Gallery.' Yes, I know the e