essed by ten,
so that he could work from ten till one, so that he could walk out and
lunch at one-thirty, observing his time-table punctually.

The telephone rang again, and Mrs. Shelley enquired tonelessly whether
he had received her invitation.

"Oh, Eric! I _did_ hope you could come!" she exclaimed. "Can't you
reconsider? Poor Babs seems so anxious to see you again."

Mrs. Shelley, then, had the wit to guess where the initiative lay.

"I'm afraid that the privilege of gratifying Lady Barbara's whims----"

He forgot how he had meant to finish the sentence, and there was a
pause.

"Don't you like her, Eric?" asked Mrs. Shelley. "Most people fall a
victim the first time they meet her."

"I've outgrown the susceptible age," he laughed. "And, anyway, I'm
working. It's awfully kind of you to invite me, Mrs. Shelley----"

"Eric, I wish you'd reconsider," she interrupted before he could repeat
his refusal. "I feel you'll be doing her a kindness by coming; you
amused her and turned her thoughts. . . . I was dreadfully distressed
last night; she looked as if she were going into a decline. . . ."

In contrast to Mrs. Shelley's toneless voice Eric heard again Barbara's
abrupt, startling cry, "You're hopeless, hopeless!"--just before she
collapsed limply on the sofa and cried about something which she would
not explain. . . .

"You make it impossible for me to refuse," he said with an uneasy laugh.

"I'm so grateful! I _knew_ you'd come, Eric."

He threw back the bed-clothes and rang for his bath.

"I suppose Lady Barbara will think _she_ knew I was coming, too," he
said to himself. "I don't mind being made a fool of _once_. . . ."

At noon he tidied his papers and lighted a cigarette while he waited for
a call from his agent. The "Divorce" was being produced in America; and
for an arid, perplexing half-hour Mr. Grierson, with eyes half-closed in
the grey smoke of his cigar, pushed cables, letters, copies and a draft
agreement across the table.

"Stay and have some lunch," Eric suggested, as half-past twelve struck.
"Manders is due any time now. He wants me to make certain alterations in
the 'Bomb-Shell,' and you can keep me in countenance. I'm getting rather
tired of being told: 'Of course, with great respect, Lane, you're a
new-comer to the theatre. . . .' New-comer I may be, but it doesn't lie
in Manders' mouth to say so, if he'll trouble to calculate how many
thousands I've put in his pocket. . . . Isn't this