very Thursday he went to Berkeley Square, every Friday Barbara
lunched with him in Ryder Street--after sweeping aside his scruples by
appealing in his presence to her mother for leave to come to his flat
unchaperoned. And for an appreciable part of each week Barbara devoted
herself to arranging further meetings in the houses of their friends.

"_Took Lady B. home late and circuitously._"

Eric was mildly surprised to find how lately their tropical intimacy had
begun. Two months. . . . And no one--in court or outside--would believe
the truth. . . . "_Dined with B. in her boudoir, the house being in
curl-papers. She unwontedly communicative, but tired and in need of
rest._" The discreet phrasing gave him all the reminder that he wanted
to construct again the night when she had told him about Jack
Waring--she had indeed been communicative----; and any one who broke
down as she had done presumably stood in need of rest. . . .

On that night she had turned herself from an adventure into a habit;
in place of sentimental tilting there had been born a love without
passion. . . .

He laid aside the diary as the telephone-bell rang.

"Hullo? Good-morning, Eric. Many happy returns of the day!"

"But it isn't my birthday."

"It's our new play, stupid. Are you feeling very nervous?"

"Not in the least. If it's going to be a success, it'll _be_ a success;
if it's going to be a failure, my feeling nervous won't help things."

"M'yes. I like you better when you're less philosophical and more human.
I suppose you're simply flooded with telegrams and letters of good
wishes. Darling, I'm so excited! If it doesn't go well--of course, it
isn't a _good_ play; I've never said that, have I?"

"I sometimes wonder whether you'll ever say that of any play I write,"
he laughed.

"Oh, you _will_ do good work some day. But I thought, after knowing me
all these weeks--well, if it doesn't make the most tremendous hit, I
shall walk quietly out of the theatre and throw myself into the river."

"I certainly shan't jump in after you."

"Not even for the advertisement? Would you miss me, Eric?"

"I'm almost sure to at first," he answered with a laugh. "Babs, I've got
to get up now----"

"Don't you dare to ring me off, Eric! I want to know about to-night."

"Scott's at seven."

"And what dress would you like me to wear?"

He pondered over the familiar ritual.

"The one I always call the 'fairy queen,' I think."

"Well, say 'please.'"