six months' uninterrupted work!
London had to be not only captured but held; more than ever before, his
work was the one thing that mattered. . . .

The clock in the library struck twelve, and he tossed the manuscript
skeleton back into his despatch-box. His mind was vaguely disturbed with
a sense of duty undone, until he remembered promising to tell Barbara if
he heard any news of Jack Waring. For a moment he thought of writing to
her; but in fact there was no news, he would have only himself to blame
if he re-established communications with her in obedience to a passing
whim. She was at Crawleigh, resting and building up her strength; he
would be back in full harness within thirty-six hours, and there would
be no room for her madcap incursions into his life.

4

The house was very silent when Eric at length mustered resolution to go
to bed. The fragrance of many wood fires warmed the passages and
staircase with a drowsy scent; once a distant window rattled tremulously
in the wind, the hall clock gathered itself together and hesitated
before striking; all else was deep-brooding peace.

He turned out the lights and mounted to his room on tip-toe. There was a
fancied sound of tranquil breathing, as he paused outside each door in
the long, low passage. He at least was awake; his highly-strung new
restlessness would not accord with the placidity of these contented
people. Twenty-five years ago, his mother had fetched him from
Broadstairs for his first Christmas holidays; and he had been
wonderfully glad to see her and to be home again. So it had been every
holiday; he started with an afternoon's preliminary exploration,
flinging open doors, sniffing the familiar scent of leather bindings,
lavender and pine-logs, critically watchful for change. Now the change
had come in himself; Agnes had commented on it, his mother and Sybil had
noticed it. . . .

His bedroom was as he had known it from childhood; a hard brass bed,
white painted chest-of-drawers and wash-hand-stand, threadbare green
carpet, flowered and festooned pink-and-white wall-paper. (It _must_
have been renewed in twenty-five years, but the pattern was the same.)
There was an oak-framed "Light of the World" over the bed, supplemented
on the other walls with progressive personal records--eleven podgy,
flannelled little boys in quartered chocolate-and-gold caps, guarded and
patronized by a flannelled and whiskered master; four lean-faced, stern
young school