this anguished parting; then, though he had never contemplated
it until a week before, he could ask Barbara to marry him. As yet,
though he wanted her, he had still to find whether he could be content
without her; before marrying, she must subordinate obligation, memory
and conscience to her need of him. . . . The Warings were waiting at the
lych-gate, and he asked Agnes whether she had any news of Jack.

"I'll let you know when we have," she answered, shaking her head. "It's
nearly six months now. . . . I'm just keeping my mind a blank."

They turned out of the churchyard and walked in silence towards Lashmar
village. For ten years they had always hurried ahead of their parents
for a moment together; and, before anything else, Agnes always thanked
him for her present. This year Eric had given her nothing; it was unfair
to pretend that there was no change of feeling. . . .

"I suppose you're as busy as ever?" she asked abruptly. "The new play
seems to be a great success."

"I think it's doing quite well," he assented. "I wish I'd seen more of
you that night, Agnes."

"There was such a crowd of people; we only put our heads into the box to
congratulate you. Eric, I'd never seen your friend Lady Barbara at close
quarters before; she's--bewitching."

Without daring to look at her face, Eric tried to discover from Agnes'
tone whether she had chosen or blundered on such a word.

"She varies," he said judicially. "That night--yes, she was looking her
best then. Sometimes . . . she's not very strong, you know. . . ."

He broke off, thinking of their last night together. They walked as far
as Lashmar Common without speaking, though he knew that his silence
betrayed him.

At luncheon Sir Francis proposed the health of his absent sons, and the
afternoon passed in lazy talk round the library fire. The smell of the
pine logs filled Eric with old memories; he slipped on to a foot-stool
and sat with his head resting against his mother's knees, drowsy and a
little wistful. He wished that he could go back to a time when life was
less complicated and he could still confide in her.

"Tired, old boy?" asked Lady Lane, as she stroked his head.

"No. Only thinking. I can just remember our first Christmas here; there
was a party and a Christmas tree, and I retired to the terrace and had a
stand-up fight with some young friend, and our nurses came and separated
us. A long time ago, mother! Before Sybil was born."

The girl rouse