een.
Her head was bent so low that she did not see him rise and come round to
her side; a startled shiver passed through her, as he knelt down and put
his arm round her shoulders, drawing her to him until her cheek rested
against his.

"Babs, dear! Darling Babs!" he whispered. "Don't----"

"Ah, don't tell me not to cry, Eric! I've kept it down, I _have_ been
brave, but it's sending me mad!"

She was sliding limply off the chair, as though her bones had been
broken in company with her pride and resistance. He led her to a sofa
and knelt beside her, sometimes gently chafing her hands, sometimes
drying the slow tears which rolled down her cheeks. Once or twice she
tried to speak, but he hushed her to silence.

"Darling, you must stop now," he commanded as the tears ceased and she
began to sob drily. "When I said 'Don't----,' I was going to say 'Don't
stop crying, don't mind me; it will do you good.' But you'll make
yourself ill, if you go on." He caught her wrist and gripped it. "Put
your feet up, because I'm going to push the sofa to the fire. . . . Your
shoulders are frozen. . . . Now I'm going to bring you the lobster. . . .
And you haven't had anything to drink yet."

After a single weak protest she entered into the spirit of his fireside
picnic and by the time that he had seated himself cross-legged on the
floor she was laughing at his apprehensive care in keeping his trousers
from losing their crease. When coffee was brought in, he gave her a
cigarette and raised her hand clumsily to his lips.

"I'm sorry I've been unsympathetic, Babs." There was no answer, and he
could see her staring into the fire with eyes that were covered with a
film of tears. "I _didn't_ understand, I thought you were ill and
over-excited, or I'd have bitten out my tongue before I snubbed you and
told you that you were a nuisance. Will you forgive me?"

The film of tears gathered into shining drops and rolled mournfully down
her cheeks.

"As if _I_ had anything to forgive. . . . You'll never speak to me
again, if I tell you. And if I don't tell you . . . If I don't tell you,
I could never look you in the eyes."

Barbara stared at the fire, and for a moment it seemed as though she
were again making confession at the judgement-seat of God.

"I met Jack two years ago," she began hurriedly. "He'd been saying
things that hurt me, so I arranged to stay with the Pentyres when he was
there and I made him fall in love with me. One night at R