act was played a second time, taking form and life as all warmed to
their work. Eric watched with critical narrowed eyes, no longer
scattering pencil-marks in the margin of the script, restrained,
impassive and absorbed. Barbara sat with her hands clasped round her
ankles and her head resting against his knee. Only when the act was
ended did he seem to become aware of her; then he edged away and stood
up.

"Better! Very much better! Just turn to the place where----" He rustled
back into the middle of the act and had it played through to the
curtain.

Half-an-hour later Barbara emerged into sunshine. Eric was tired and
rather husky, but pleased and hopeful. His earlier irritability was
forgotten save when it obtruded itself reproachfully to remind him that
he had been scantly civil to the girl by his side.

"The next thing is a taxi," he murmured, as they came out into
Shaftesbury Avenue.

"You wouldn't dream of taking me home and offering me some tea?" she
suggested.

"I would not, Lady Barbara," he answered cheerfully. "Your practice of
visiting young unmarried men in their rooms should be promptly checked.
But I'll drop you in Berkeley Square, if you like."

"That would be more--respectable. It's curious how you seem to have made
up your mind not to do anything I ask you."

"It doesn't seem to make much difference to the result."

She ceased pouting and smiled self-confidently for a moment. Then her
assurance left her, and she slipped her arm timidly through his.

"Am I being a nuisance, Eric? You said so, and--oh, it _did_ hurt! I
honestly enjoyed myself this afternoon; and I wasn't so very much in the
way, was I? Don't you like me to enjoy myself? Don't you like to see me
happy? Are you sure you're not a little bit sorry you were so brutal to
me?"

"My conscience is quite easy, thanks. Lady Barbara----"

He hesitated and felt himself flushing.

"Yes?"

"Lady Barbara--, I don't understand you, I don't begin to understand
you."

"You won't write a good play till you do," she laughed. "All your women
are romantic dolls. We're much better and much worse than you think. But
that wasn't what you started to say."

"I know. . . . Well, you oughtn't to have come to my rooms last night.
And you oughtn't to have come to-day, though that wasn't as bad. . . .
What d'you imagine people like Grierson or Manders think? What d'you
imagine Mabel Elstree thinks, when you sit with your head against my
knee?"

She