have
gone by since the--news. If there's no further news . . . Wait till--my
birthday!"

Next morning, Barbara departed to Crawleigh Abbey, and for a month they
did not meet. As spring budded and blossomed into summer, Eric counted
the days that separated him from the fulfilment of her promise. There
was no reason for him to be anxious; but his mind was filled with
nervous images, and imagination suggested a thousand fantastic ways in
which Barbara might be snatched from him. As her birthday drew near, he
forced a meeting with Agnes Waring and once more asked if there was any
news of Jack.

"Nothing yet," she answered. "A long time, isn't it?"

"Very long. . . ." He hated himself for the hypocrisy of this
conventional solicitude, when he was only impatient for authentic news
that his best friend was dead. "You'll let me know . . .?"

"Of course I will, Eric," Agnes answered. "I don't know _when_----"

Her undramatic courage, reinforced by his own sense of make-believe
sympathy, restored him to sincerity. Though he had never been in love
with Agnes--as Barbara had taught him to understand the term--he was
still fond of her.

"I wish you came to London sometimes," he said, beating his stick
against the side of his boot. "It would make a little bit of a break for
you. Will you let me give you dinner and take you to a play?"

It was the first time in eight months that he had made her any sign of
affection, and she looked at him curiously. Eric wondered whether she
imagined that he had failed elsewhere and was drifting back to her.

"Somehow I hardly feel----" she began. "Dick Benyon--you remember we
brought him over to dine with you?--wanted me to come. . . ."

"It can't do any _harm_."

"It can't do any harm, certainly. I'll talk to mother about it."

Two days later she wrote to suggest a night, and Eric felt that he had
involuntarily succeeded where young Benyon had failed; a week later he
was waiting for her in the lounge of the Carlton. Though she had
stipulated for a seven o'clock dinner so that they should be in their
places before the curtain went up, half-past seven had struck before she
hurried in with breathless apologies.

"It's all right, but I'm afraid your cocktail will be tepid," he said.
"I ordered it beforehand to save time. I suppose you couldn't get a
taxi."

"Yes." She laid her hand on his arm for support and walked with the same
breathlessness into the restaurant. "My head's in a whirl.