finding you as thoroughly dull as you warned me to expect," he
observed, borrowing her candour of speech.

"I should think not! I'm never dull when it's worth while taking any
trouble. I didn't think you _were_ worth while, till you began talking.
Then I saw that in spite of the play----"

"I didn't think I should be spared that," he murmured.

"And the poses----"

"Poses?"

"Oh, my dear child, you've postured and advertised yourself till every
one's sick of you! A good press--I should think you had! You're never
out of it! An announcement that you've left London--and the intolerable
effrontery of telling us all about it! The only way you could escape
from your mob of adorers."

"I don't think I used the word 'adorers'; and I've _got_ to find time
somehow to rehearse my new play."

His voice had grown a little stiff. Barbara smiled to herself and
discovered suddenly that the desire to hurt him was dead.

"When's the new play coming out?" she asked.

"In the middle of next month."

"You can't make it later?"

"Are you afraid you won't be able to attend the first night?" he
laughed.

"God forbid! But I shan't have time to complete your education in a
month. Now, I'm talking seriously. Put that play off! You're only a
child, you've made a mint of money out of this present abomination. If
you'll wait till I've educated you----"

Her pupils had dilated until the irises were swamped in black. The early
warm flush had shrunk and intensified into two vivid splashes of colour
over her cheek-bones. Neurotic, Eric decided; but arresting and
magnetic.

"And what do you propose to teach me?" he enquired.

As he spoke, he was conscious of a lull in the conversation. Without
looking round, he knew that every one was watching them and that both
their voices had risen a tone.

"Life!" she cried. "You've never _met_ men and women. I told George
Oakleigh so that night. That's why the public loves your play."

Eric turned to Lady Poynter.

"I have a new play coming out next month," he explained, "and Lady
Barbara wants me to hang it up till she's taught me--did you say
'life'?"

"Yes! Margaret, darling, any young man may write _one_ successful bad
play----"

There was a gasp of orotund protest from Lady Poynter.

"My _dear_ Babs!"

"Of course it's a bad play! What I don't know about bad plays isn't
worth knowing, I've seen so many of them! Have you _ever_ met a woman,
Mr. Lane? Have you ever even _fancied_ th