oted during the Commune," he began hurriedly.
"I was given them as a house-warming present. The clock . . ."

Barbara was wandering listlessly round the room and paying little
attention to what he was saying. She explored the book-cases, ransacked
the writing-table and looked curiously at the horse-shoe paper-weight.

"You can give this to me, Eric," she suggested over her shoulder.

"I'm afraid it was a present. Given me on my first night."

"It would still be a present, if you gave it to me. I had one, but I
broke it. All my luck's left me since then. Are you superstitious?"

"Not--in--the--_least_! I keep this for associations and a toy. If I
_could_ bring out a play on Friday the thirteenth----"

"If you're not superstitious, there's no excuse for not giving it to
me."

She tossed the horse-shoe into the air and caught it neatly with her
right hand.

"I'll see if I can get you another one," he promised, "but I don't know
whether they're made in England."

"It might make all the difference to me," she pleaded, catching the
horse-shoe with her left hand. "It's only a toy to you--a child's toy."

Eric shook his head at her. Barbara pouted and threw the horse-shoe a
third time into the air, bending forward to catch it behind her back as
it dropped. Eric, watching apprehensively, saw a flash of apprehension
reflected for an instant in her eyes; then there was a tinkle of broken
glass.

"Oh, my _dear_! I wouldn't have done that for the world!" she cried,
pressing her hands against her cheeks. "I've destroyed your luck now!
What a fool I was! Abject fool!"

"What _does_ it matter?" Eric laughed.

"I wouldn't have done that for the world," she repeated with a white
face.

"And you're living in the year of grace nineteen-fifteen? It's
only--What did we call it? A child's toy. And, between ourselves, it
wasn't a very efficient paper-weight. I can assure you I shan't miss
it."

"Perhaps you will some day. And then you'll lift up your hands and curse
the hour when you first met me."

Eric looked complacently at the airy room, the crowded book-cases, the
soft chairs, the bellying curtains and the neat pile of manuscript on
his writing-table:

"Aren't you perhaps exaggerating your potential influence on my life?"
he suggested.

Barbara went back to her sofa and helped herself to a cigarette without
hurry or fear that this time it would be taken from her; she smiled for
a match--and smiled again when it was