ve a chill--or pneumonia; and henceforth he must depend on the
newspapers and on chance-met friends to find how she was and what she
was doing. The friends, too, accepting him as her guardian, would be
more likely to come to him for news; he would have to say that he had
not seen her for a week, a month, six months. . . . And they would
wonder and gossip about the mysterious estrangement as zealously as
about their "engagement"; and the kinder sort, like Lady Poynter,
instead of scheming to bring them together, would arrange their parties
with a tactful eye to secure that they did not meet. . . .

Eric paused to knock out his pipe and to reflect that, as he had made up
his mind, there was nothing to gain by pitying himself or by growing
angry with imaginary disputants. Sir Francis and Sybil came into the
library to begin the day's work; his mother rustled to and fro, giving
her orders. All that he had to do was to find an unoccupied table and
settle down to work. The intimacy was over. In time he might care to
think about it, he might even be able to meet Barbara, but at present he
had to keep his mind absorbed with other thoughts.

He had schooled himself to a semblance of stoicism when he reached his
office. It was temporarily undermined by a letter, also marked "Urgent,"
"By hand," which he found awaiting him.

"_Christmas Day._"

"_I suppose you left London before my note arrived. I sent another
and one to Lashmar, but the posts are so bad nowadays that I'm
writing to your office as well. I don't think you told me how long
you were going to be away, but please, I beg you, come and see me
just for a moment when you're back in London. I must see you again,
Eric. If you're not back to-morrow, you will be next day, I'm sure.
Please ring me up the moment you get this. Barbara._"

So she had lain waiting for him all Christmas Day, all Boxing Day; she
was waiting now, and he had no idea how to tell her that he could not
come.

The telephone rang, and he was surprised to hear Amy Loring's voice
instead of Barbara's.

"Is that Mr. Lane? Oh, forgive me for disturbing you at your work. I
expect you've heard that poor Babs is ill. Can you get to see her? She'd
like it so much."

Eric caught himself resolutely shaking his head at the telephone.

"I'm afraid it's impossible. I've been away for Christmas, and the work
here----"

"But can't you manage a moment? Look in on your way home."