ried you through."

Eric was not interested in the figures. He was recalling the mood in
which he had sent the manuscript to Grierson, when he was working under
inspiration. He had grudged the hours wasted on sleep and food when he
might have been working for Barbara.

"I seem to have more money than I know what to do with," he answered
shortly. "By the way, has Manders given tongue yet about the play?"

"'Mother's Son'? Yes, I wrote you last night. Didn't you get my letter?
Oh, he's quite enthusiastic about it. He suggests a few small
changes----"

"Manders would," Eric rejoined from habit rather than resentment. He did
not care if he never wrote another play; he did not care if they
returned to him battered and dog's-eared after months of delay and
desultory travel--as in the old days. Manders might cut the thing about
to the top of his vulgar Philistine bent.

"He wants to begin rehearsing at once," Grierson went on slowly. "And
the 'Divorce' is being revived at the Emperor's. You'll have three plays
running in London at the same time."

"I'm not going to stay in England to please Manders," Eric interrupted.

"He'd like to have a talk with you about it before you leave London,"
said Grierson.

Eric caught himself yawning. It was such futility to discuss a play in
which he had lost all interest.

On his return, he yawned again over his letters. It was futile to hear
from people in whom he had lost all interest, though a Swiss stamp and a
hand-writing which he had almost forgotten quickened the beating of his
heart.

"_My dear Eric_," he read.

"_Your letter was a joy to me! Please go on writing. You cannot imagine
how home-sick I feel. I want the smell of London again, I want to hear
people talking my own language and I want to see 'em in bulk, drifting
slowly down the Strand from the Temple. Do you remember the old days
when we lived together in Pump Court? I want to go and lunch at the club
again and have a little dinner at the Berkeley, say, and go on to a
theatre, decently dressed with other people decently dressed too.
There's a chance--one lives on hope from day to day--that I may be sent
home; I don't seem to be getting any better here: all goes well for a
time, and then I get such a head-ache as I would not sell for the minted
wealth of the world. Of course, that makes work of any kind rather a
problem, and I see myself looking out for a job which I can do at my own
convenience, when I feel up to