a hurry. Can you see me some time? I suppose
you're going to Crawleigh to-morrow--That's no good. Can you dine with
me on Tuesday?"

"I wanted you to come here on Tuesday."

"You never said anything about it. Will you be alone?"

"I'm afraid not. Eric, will you be honourable? It's my half-birthday; I
always have two a year. I didn't tell you, because I was afraid you'd
rush out and buy me a present. And I couldn't bear to receive anything
more from you. But will you come _without_ a present? I've got a little
party."

"I should love it. Thank you, Babs. But I want to see you alone."

She was silent for several moments.

"You're very mysterious, darling," she said at last.

"I heard something to-night that rather upset me----"

"About Jack?"

A thrill of expectation had come into her voice.

"Oh, no! It's one of those things that wouldn't matter if we weren't all
congenital idiots."

"It's not something I've done?"

"My dear child, no!"

"Won't you tell me what it is?"

"I'd rather not on the telephone. I may get a moment on Tuesday; if not,
can you dine with me here the next night?"

"_Alone?_" Her laugh mocked him without malice. "I insist on bringing my
kitten."

He joined in the laugh.

"You may bring the kitten. I know I'm asking you to do something that I
disapprove of, but I'm rather worried and I must see you alone."

For three days he explored cautiously to discover how far the Ettrick
story had spread. Saturday brought him a heavy bundle of news-cuttings;
but they were all concerned with "The Bomb-Shell." No one wrote to him,
no one confronted him with a blunt question, though Ettrick had
protested that the story was common property. When Eric walked to
Berkeley Square for the birthday party, he was embarrassed for the first
time in shaking hands with Lord Crawleigh; sooner or later he would be
summoned to a very unpleasant interview.

It was obvious at a glance that no one would have private conversation
with Barbara that night. She stood in the drawing-room at the apex of a
triangle with a compact row of parents behind and, supporting them, a
longer row of silent, embarrassed brothers; cousins in every degree
described a circle round the triangle, and in a wider, looser circle
stood people who knew Eric and needed diplomatic handling to hide his
forgetfulness of them.

"My aunt's parties are like a Derby Day crowd," panted Amy Loring, as an
unseen pianist began to play and they wer