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. home rather late and circuitously."
Then his secretary knocked and settled herself on the edge of an arm-chair.
"Good-morning," Eric began. "Will you write first of all to the manager of the bank——"
The telephone rang with a dull drone at the foot of his bed, and the girl made tentative movements of discreet departure.
"No, you deal with this!" Eric cried. "Out of London. You're not sure when I shall be back. Can you take a message?"
The girl picked up the instrument, while Eric glanced again through his letters.
"Hullo! Yes. Yes. He's—away, I'm afraid. … But, you see, he's away. … " She looked despairingly at Eric. "He's awa-ay!" Then breathlessly she clapped the receiver back.
"It was Lady Barbara Somebody; I couldn't hear the surname. She said you weren't away and she must speak to you. I thought it was best——"
Eric had to collect himself before answering. In the sane cold light of early morning the overnight escapade was a draggled, unromantic bit of folly. If he met Barbara again, he would make things as easy as possible: there would be no allusions, no sly smiles; the whole thing was to be forgotten. And yet she was already digging it from under the lightly sprinkled earth. If she were throwing herself on his mercy, it was unnecessary; he had said "Good-bye … " very distinctly. And she must surely know that she need not beg him not to talk. …
"You were quite right," he told his secretary. "Where were we? Oh, the manager——"
The bell rang again. Eric frowned and picked up the receiver, while the girl, after a moment's hesitation, tip-toed out of the room. Barbara had already disturbed his time-table for thirty seconds. …
"Hullo? Mr. Lane is away at present," he said. There was a pause. "I told you yesterday, Lady Barbara. Just as when you say 'Not at home.' … I'm exceedingly busy and I must have a few days to myself. Good-bye."
The constant factor in her overnight autobiography was that every one had always done what Barbara wanted; but, if she fancied that she was going to break into a working-day with any of her nonsense, she would be disappointed.
At the other end of the line a gentle, rather tired voice said:
"Don't cut me off. If you know the trouble I've had to get hold of you! Eric, why aren't you in the book? Another device for escaping your adorers? I've been pursuing you round London for a good half-hour; then your people at the theatre——"
"Is it anything important?" he interrupted curtly.
"It's very important that you should listen most politely and carefully and patiently and attentively when I'm talking to you. So far you haven't asked how I am, you haven't told me how you are——"
"I've suggested that I'm very busy," he interrupted her again.
"But I don't allow that sort of thing to stand in the way."
"And I don't allow any one to break into my time. Good-bye——"
"Eric, don't you dare ring me off! I want to know whether you'll lunch here to-day. I've collected rather an amusing party."
"I'm afraid I can't."
"Where are you lunching? At home? Then you can certainly come. … I don't care who's lunching with you. … If you don't—Well, you'll see. In the meantime, has Marion Shelley invited you to dine to-night and are you going?"
"Yes, to the first; no, to the second," Eric answered. "Lady Barbara——"
"It must be 'yes' to the second, too, dear Eric. I rang her up at cock-crow to say that you wanted her to invite us together. You do, you know; you want to see whether last night's impression was true; that's why I asked you to lunch. … Now I want to know if you've a rehearsal to-day, because, if so——"
"Lady Barbara, I am going to cut you off," said Eric distinctly.
He hung up the receiver and was about to ring for his secretary, when his memory was arrested by the picture of Barbara springing to her feet, reviling him, collapsing on the sofa and bursting into tears. "Bully her, and she cries," he murmured impatiently. "Don't bully her, and she bullies you. I'm not cut out for the part of tame cat. Another forty-eight hours, and she'll expect me to drive round London and look at dresses with her. … " But if his petulance had made her cry again … Eric hunted for a pen and, without involving himself in delicacies of address, wrote—"I am not discourteous by preference, but you drive me to it. La comedia è finita." He left the note unsigned and asked his secretary to have it sent by hand to Berkeley Square. When it had left him past recall, he felt that he could have done better; and he knew that he would have done best of all by not writing. … But he was irritated by her too insistent unconventionality; irritated and yet rawly elated by his ascendancy over her.
His secretary returned, and he dictated to her until half-past nine struck. It was his signal to get up so that he could be dressed 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,