long, or are you going
back on Monday?" Eric answered with unsought inspiration:

"I shall go back on Sunday night."

It had never occurred to him before that, by this facile course, he
could avoid an early and cold drive into Winchester, a crowded train, a
free fight for the last copy of _The Times_, a late arrival at the
department where he composed propaganda for neutral consumption. And he
had never felt so urgent a need to escape from the Mill-House.

"I haven't seen your jolly old play yet," said Geoff. "I suppose I can
count on you for a box? If you'll give us dinner first, I might collect
a few bright lads and give the thing a bit of a fillip. I should think
it must be rather a rag, being famous."

"I suppose that depends on your definition of fame--and of a rag," Eric
answered.

"Oh, being invited everywhere," said Geoff unhesitatingly. "Having your
photograph in all the papers. Girls waiting in a queue for your
autograph. A galaxy of beauty prostrating itself at your feet to get an
extra line."

"That sounds more like musical comedy," said Eric doubtfully. "I don't
fly as high as that."

Geoff was too young to have outgrown the appeal of the stage. He
regarded Eric with as much admiration as one brother accords another and
with undisguised envy.

"I _did_ enjoy your play," said Benyon, moving into a chair by his side.
"Agnes came up to dine with me, and I took her. . . ."

Eric bowed without listening to the end of the sentence. He was mildly
surprised to find Agnes being discussed by her Christian name and
wondered why he had not heard of Benyon before. Perhaps it was her fault
that they had established no spiritual contact at dinner; she had
conceivably lost interest in him, and he wondered whether he was
sufficiently interested to make sure. . . .

"The mater told me you'd another thing on the stocks," Geoff went on.

"It's being produced next month," answered Eric.

He looked impatiently round the cramped dining-room, listening for a
moment to an altercation between Waring and Nares on the Dardanelles
expedition. It was surely worth while to explore Agnes further and to
see what part in her life this young Benyon was playing. . . .

Fortified by the wise decision to return to London earlier than he had
first intended, Eric entered the drawing-room full of toleration and
good-humour. Bending over Mrs. Nares' sofa, he atoned for his
inattention during dinner with thirty seconds' belated spar