at you were in love?"

Eric took a cigarette and lighted one for Barbara.

"I thought I knew a lot about life when I was twenty-two," he said,
studiedly reflective. "I'd just come down from Oxford."

Her attention seemed to have wandered to her cigarette, for she drew
hard at it and then asked for another match.

"Which was your college?" she enquired with neurotic suddenness of
transition.

"Trinity."

"Did you know my brother? He must have been up about your time. He was
at the House."

"I knew him by sight. Tall, fair-haired man; he was on the Bullingdon. I
never met him, though. I didn't know many men at the House."

Barbara thought for a moment.

"I don't believe I know any one who was at Trinity in your time. Did you
ever meet a man called Waring?"

"Jack Waring of New College? I've known him all my life. They're
neighbours of ours in Hampshire. You know he's missing?"

Barbara nodded quickly.

"So I heard. . . . I suppose nothing definite's known?"

"I haven't met any of the family since the news was published, but I
shall see his sister this week-end."

"Well, if you can find out anything without too much bother----"

"Oh, she's a great friend of mine," Eric explained. "It's no trouble."

Barbara turned to him with a rapid backward cast to her earlier quest.

"Are you in love with her? Oh, but why not?" she demanded querulously.
"It would do you so much good--as a man and as a writer. You'll never
get rid of your self-satisfaction till then; and you'll never write a
good play. It's such a pity, when you've everything except the
psychology. Why don't you fall in love with me? I could teach you such a
lot, and you'd never regret it." Barbara caught her hostess' eye and
picked up her gloves. "You'd write a tolerable play in the middle of it,
a work of genius at the end----"

Eric's laugh interrupted her eager outpour.

"I'm quite satisfied to be an observer of life."

"Dear child, you're quite satisfied with _every_thing. You're sunk in
soulless contentment; you shirk emotion because it would force you to
see below the pink-and-white surface; that's why you write such bad
plays. Margaret!" She approached Lady Poynter with outstretched arms.
"I've argued myself hoarse trying to persuade Mr. Lane to fall in love
with me. Do see what you can do! He shews all the obstinacy of a young,
weak man; he won't _see_ how much I should improve him. When he'd learnt
life at my hands----"

Lady Poynter