must decide," he repeated.

"And if I say 'no'?"

"I've said you were under no obligation to me."

"But--you'll turn me away? If I came to you to-morrow and said I'd
changed my mind----"

"It would be too late."

She steadied herself and turned round, bending for her gloves and then
drawing herself upright to face him.

"I . . . can't . . . now, Eric. . . . Is it still raining? If it is, I'd
better have a taxi."

"I'll see if I can get you one."

He had seen this gesture before; and Barbara had followed it with a
stream of notes and messages; begging him to come back. Eric walked
slowly into the street, giving her generous time for consideration. A
taxi stood idle at the top of St. James' Street; and, when he returned
with it, she was in the hall, white-faced but collected, turning over
the pages of a review.

"Good-bye, Eric," she said quietly. "I'm afraid I've only brought you
unhappiness. And my love doesn't seem much use to any one. . . . Don't
bother to come down with me."

He went into the smoking-room and dropped limply onto a sofa, waiting
for the telephone to ring, waiting for her to confess defeat. A hideous
evening--almost as bad as that night before Christmas. His cheeks were
burning, and his head ached savagely. Suddenly his theatrical composure
and stoicism left him; his body trembled, and he was amazed to feel
tears coursing down his cheeks. This, then--he was quite detached about
it--was the nervous break-down which Gaisford had prophesied. He had
not cried for twenty years . . . and now he could not stop. His heart
seemed to have broken loose and to be hammering in space, like the
engine of a disabled clock-work toy.

It was still absurdly early, for their scene had taken place among the
nut-shells and coffee-cups of dinner. There was time for her to come
back, to telephone; she knew by harrowing experience what a parting like
this meant. And, while he waited, he must do something! Perhaps she
would not break silence till the morning. He would see that she did not
wait longer than that. . . .

"_Darling Babs_," he began. A hot tear splashed on to the paper, and he
reached for a fresh sheet. "_Darling Babs, It was your choice. I pray
God that you will find greater happiness elsewhere._ . . ."

He strung sentence to sentence, not knowing what he wrote. Was it not
weakness that he should be writing the first letter? But Barbara was
probably writing to him at this moment, writing or asking