issolute about the invention (which cost
L17.10 and had struck work four times in three weeks). After a long
night of work or frolic, the sybarite moved the hand on for twelve
hours--his last conscious act before collapsing into bed; if, again, he
had retired early or were so much debauched that he could not sleep, he
wearily set the hand for "_Please call me now._"

Eric looked with smarting eyes first at the luminous clock, then at the
dial. Half-past five, coupled with "_Please call me at eight._" He
undressed ruminatively, reheated his hot-water can at the gas-ring,
methodically folded his clothes, smoothed his trousers away in their
press, selected a suit for the following day, washed face and hands,
brushed teeth and hoisted himself into bed. The dial must stand as he
had left it. Lady Barbara Neave had come--and gone; she was not going to
disturb his work.

His sleep seemed to be interrupted almost instantly by the arrival of a
maid with tea, rusks, letters and _The Times_. His head was hot, but he
was singularly untired; that would come later.

His letters varied little from day to day; two appeals for free sittings
with Bond Street photographers; four receipts; one bill; a dignified
protest from a country clergyman who had been shocked by the line: "Oh,
you're not sending me down with _that_ woman, Rhoda? She's God's first
and most _perfect_ bore." There was an ill-written request for leave to
translate his play into French, three news-cuttings to herald his new
play, a conventional letter from his mother, two petitions for free
stalls from impecunious friends and nine invitations to luncheon or
dinner. He had hardly finished reading them, when a pencilled note, sent
by hand from Mrs. Shelley, made the tenth.

Eric piled his correspondence under the butter-dish to await his
secretary's arrival and turned methodically to _The Times_. Half-an-hour
later he rang for his housekeeper and subjected her book to scrutiny. A
leather-bound journal with a snap-lock lay on his table, and he next
wrote his diary for the previous day. "_So to dinner--rather late--with
Lady Poynter to meet her nephew, Capt. Gaymer (R. F. C). Mrs. O'Rane (as
beautiful as ever, but too voluble for my taste), Mrs. Shelley and Lady
Barbara Neave. Meredithian debate on wine with Lord P., which I would
give anything to put into a play. Bridge; but I cut out._" He hesitated
and drummed with his fingers on the thick creamy pages. "_Took Lady B.
h