er demanded recognition and a subtile
modification of manner.

"Darling, how are you after all this time?" Barbara was on her knees by
his chair before he realized that she was in the room. "When do you
start? You never said a word about it in your letters."

He stood up and pulled her gently to her feet. Invitingly she craned her
head forward, offering him her lips.

"About what?"

"Your American tour. The _Vieux boulevardier_ said you were going to
deliver a course of lectures in America."

Common-form invitations had reached him from time to time through his
agent, but, after the first, he had relegated them unread to the
waste-paper basket. And his department was still urging him abroad.

"I've no intention of going yet awhile," he told her. "It was only a
newspaper rumour; perhaps some day I shall make it true. You remember
that there was another rumour which my mother told me had in fact got
into some provincial rag? Some day that also may be true."

He lighted a cigarette and looked at her with a faint, enquiring smile.

"Eric!" she cried with reproachful warning, though he felt that she was
enjoying the thin ice on to which they had glided.

As a smile dimpled its way into her cheeks, he tired of the badinage.

"Well, did you have a good time, Babs?" he asked abruptly.

"Good? M'well. . . . I travelled the whole way with all the clothes in
the world wrapped round my throat and chest. When I woke up just beyond
Marseilles, it was so hot that I threw off one thing after another,
until I'd got down to a blouse and skirt. Next morning, there was a
glorious hot sun. . . . I jumped out of bed and ran bare-foot into the
verandah and stood there--don't be shocked, darling!--in my night-gown,
stretching out my arms to gather all the heavenly warmth. I couldn't
have coughed if you'd paid me to. It was divine, but I suddenly
discovered there was one thing wanting. Can you guess what it was?"

"From your description, most things were wanting."

"Darling, if you're prosaic, I just shan't talk to you. I discovered
that I wanted some one to share it with. If you _knew_ the glorious
feeling of standing bare-foot on hot marble! I wanted _you_, Eric! I
always want you when I'm happy, because I must share my happiness with
some one; and I want you when I'm unhappy, because I'm too proud to shew
my unhappiness to any one who doesn't love me. I hate the second-best
and I'm so glad to see you again!"

Eric considered