sulted you yet? He
_will_."

"He's only seen me once by daylight. I fancy he thinks I'm one of the
footmen. If I came to him in any other capacity . . . The industrious
ink-slinger, you know----"

Amy tossed her head impatiently.

"I don't know whether you're a genius or not, because I'm not clever
about books and things. But you've made an enormous name for yourself,
you've a big career before you; and, so long as a man's a gentleman--by
which I _don't_ mean what most people do,--I wouldn't let anything stand
in the way--except religion, of course. And I'm afraid that doesn't
count very much with Babs." She lapsed into silence, as though she had
already said too much. "And I know I'm right," she added at length.

"I daresay you are. . . . You see, I've never regarded Barbara as
anything but a wonderful friend. We casually dropped into an
extraordinary intimacy----"

"It's been too easy, too casual!" she cried. "You've taken it as a
matter of course. Neither of you appreciate what you are to the
other--I'm simply speaking from my impression; Babs hasn't said
anything, naturally, and I've hardly had two words with you until
to-night----; if it had been less easy----"

"If your uncle had forbidden me the house?" he suggested.

"If either of you were in danger of losing the other . . . I wonder what
you think of me, talking like this?"

"I'm grateful."

The music came to an end, and Gerald Deganway gave imitations of the
various ministers whom he had served as private secretary. Eric looked
across the room and identified Barbara leaning against the piano. She
was better, happier; and he had grown to be very fond of her. So long as
they met daily without marrying, he shirked deciding whether he wanted
to marry her. It would be pleasant to drift; but, when the cloud of
gossip and speculation penetrated into the heart of the Crawleighs' own
home, a man of honour could not shirk the decision any longer. He could
ask Barbara to marry him; or her father could inspire a paragraph in the
press, admitting the rumour in order to contradict it. Failing that, he
would have to say good-bye to her, though she had become so much a habit
as almost to be part of his life. . . .

The imitations were succeeded by more music, and Eric threaded his way
to the piano where Carstairs and Oakleigh were begging Barbara to sing.

"Honestly, I've no voice to-night," he heard her say.

As he drew near, she seemed to feel his presence an