n't.' Though the
'Divorce' was his first play to be produced, it was not the first that
he had written; like most authors, he had to buy experience._ . . ."

There was nothing in the rest of the article to incriminate him, but the
offending paragraph was enough in itself. Guiltily Eric looked round a
second time. Two of his fellow-passengers, slumbering with mouths agape,
were clutching "_The World and His Wife_" to their stomachs; it was the
one periodical of later date than "_Punch_" and the monthly reviews
which his parents took in at the Mill-House. Saturday was made eventful
by its appearance; even Sir Francis interested himself in the full-page
studies of actresses and _debutantes_, the house-party groups and
snapshots of celebrities in the Park. . . .

As he climbed into the car Eric was careful to let Sybil see that he was
carrying the paper in his hand. She had scarcely wormed her way out of
the traffic and shot free along the Melton road before she nodded
towards the bulging strap of his despatch-box.

"Is that true, Ricky?"

"Is what true?"

"That you're engaged to that woman?"

"Does the paper say so?" Eric enquired loftily. "By the way, Barbara
Neave is a great friend of mine, and I don't very much care about
hearing her described as 'that woman. . . .' I think the paper only said
that 'rumour' had 'been busy with' our 'names.' Rumour's been damnably
busy; it won't leave us alone!"

His sister was silent for some moments.

"I hope to _Heaven_ you're not going to make a fool of yourself with
her," she exclaimed at length. "She'll wear you out, spoil your work,
make you bankrupt in a month----"

"Isn't this rather sweeping about some one you've never even met?" Eric
interposed gently.

"You take such jolly good care that we shouldn't meet her," Sybil
answered at a tangent.

While he dressed for dinner Lady Lane came into his bedroom, more
diplomatic but no whit less insistent. As his mother, she was prepared
to make the best of everything and to suppress her own feelings; but, if
Eric had committed a crime, he could not have felt greater distaste in
putting her off with half-truths.

"You'll tell us--when there's anything to tell?" begged his mother, as
they went down to dinner; and Eric felt that he might have saved his
elaborate prevarications for a more gullible audience. Sir Francis made
no direct allusion throughout the week-end, but, as they sat over their
wine on the first night, he enq