The Education of Eric Lane. Stephen McKenna

of a late Austrian Ambassador which coincided with the collapse of his wife's maid with pneumonia. Eric, listening with half his brain, wondered whether any one would believe him if he transplanted the room, the conversation and Lord Poynter into a play; with the other half he thought of Lady Barbara's advice that he should fall in love, if not with her, at least with somebody. His sister's telephone message had started the train of thought; he was looking forward to the week-end and the opportunity of meeting Agnes Waring. The time would come—if there were many hosts like Lord Poynter and if they all talked "Hibernia" port and Tuileries brandy, it would come very soon—when he would grow tired of being pushed from one house to another and made to talk for the diversion of sham intellectuals. In this, at least, he had had enough of his triumphal progress; there was rest and companionship in being married, it was the greatest of all adventures. … He wondered how Agnes would acquit herself at a party like this; he would not like people to cease inviting him because they felt bound to invite a tiresome wife as well. …

      Gaymer, too, was growing impatient of his uncle's cellar Odyssey and was calling aloud for a cigar, while he scoured the side-board for Benedictine.

      "They'll be wondering where we've got to," said Lord Poynter guiltily, recalling his mind from a distance and lapsing into silence. And Eric felt compunction in helping to cut short the man's one half-hour of happiness in the day.

      In the drawing-room they found the four women seated at a bridge-table, disagreeing over the score. Lady Poynter archly reproached her husband and Gaymer for "monopolizing poor Mr. Lane"; there was a shuffling of feet, cutting, changing of chairs, and Mrs. Shelley crept to the door, whispering that she had to start work early next day or she would not dream of breaking up such a delightful party; she was promptly arrested and brought back by Mrs. O'Rane with the offer of Lady Maitland's brougham, which was to call for her at eleven. After an exhibition of half-hearted self-effacement by all, a new four was made up, and Eric found himself contentedly alone on a sofa with Lord Poynter mid-way between him and the table, uncertain whether to watch the game or venture on more conversation. He had whispered: "I can tell you a story about that cigar you're smoking … ," when, at the end of the second hand, Barbara looked slowly round, pushed back her chair and walked to the sofa.

      "Thinking over your wasted opportunities?" she asked, as she sat down beside Eric.

      "There are none," he answered lazily. "I've been a great success to-night. I can see that our host won't rest content till I've promised to dine here three times a week to drink his port; I've been good value to Lady Poynter; if I play bridge, I shall lose a lot of money to Gaymer—not that I don't play quite a fair game, but I'm sure, without even seeing him, that he plays a diabolically good game and I know I shall cut against him. Mrs. Shelley? Every one's always a success with her; talking to her is as demoralizing as cracking jokes from the Bench. Mrs. O'Rane wants me to write her a duologue—just as one draws a rabbit for a child. … That only leaves you. And you capitulated more completely even than Poynter, without the '63 port as an introduction and bond."

      Barbara looked at him with a dawning smile.

      "I think you're the most insufferably conceited young man I've ever met!" she exclaimed.

      "I'm adjusting the balance. If you hadn't disparaged me the whole way through dinner. … Now, when you got up here, you pumped Mrs. Shelley with both hands for everything you could get her to tell you about me. Didn't you?"

      "Well?"

      Eric smiled to himself.

      "She's the only one here who knows me, but she didn't tell you much."

      "I shan't say."

      Three impatient voices from the bridge-table met and struggled in an unmelodious chorus of "Babs! Come—here!"

      She returned a moment later, but had hardly sat down before Gaymer spread out the substantial remains of his hand with a challenge of "Any one anything to say about the rest? Babs, don't keep us waiting again!"

      As she stood up, Eric rose, too, and said good-bye.

      "I have some work to finish before I go to bed," he told her.

      "Won't you wait and see me home? Sonia O'Rane's got a brougham, and we'll borrow it first."

      Eric laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

      "Certainly, if you wish it."

      "You're not very gracious," she pouted.

      "It was so transparent. You could go with Mrs. O'Rane. Or Gaymer would be delighted to find you a taxi. Or you could go on foot."

      She drew herself up to her full height.

      "Instead of which I humiliated myself by asking a small thing which was just big enough to give you the opportunity of being rude."

      She turned away to the table, but stopped at the sound of laughter from Eric. He had hesitated a moment before taking the risk, but laughter seemed the only corrective for her theatrical dignity.

      "I spend hours each day watching people rehearsing this sort of thing," he murmured.

      "Why do you imagine I ask you to see me home?" she demanded, with a petulant stamp.

      "Partly because you're enjoying me; partly because you know I want to work and you think it will be such fun to upset my arrangements even by ten minutes."

      Barbara smiled at him over her shoulder.

      "We're a game all," she pleaded, motioning him back to the sofa.

      Eric smiled and lit a cigarette from the stump of his cigar.

      Ten minutes later they were driving along Piccadilly towards Berkeley Square, Eric rather tired, Barbara excited and restlessly voluble.

      "Is Mr. Lane going to forget our second meeting as quickly and completely as he forgot the first?" she asked.

      "The first?" Eric echoed. "This is the first time I've set eyes on you—except in the distance at theatres and places."

      "It's the first time I've ever seen your face; but I recognized your voice and, if you will come into the house for a moment, I can restore a certain flask."

      Eric turned on her in amazement.

      "Was that you? Well … Good … Good Heavens!"

      Barbara laughed softly.

      "Try not to forget me so quickly again! I've still to apologize for being such a beast when we met to-night. I was ill … and miserable——"

      "I had no idea!" Eric cried. "And I stared at you for an hour on end—trying to count your pulse by a watch without a second-hand. … But you've changed so! I used to catch sight of you before the war——"

      "I've travelled a lot since then," she interrupted. "The whole way through Purgatory to Hell."

      Eric tried to remember whether the war had robbed her of any one but Jim Loring.

      "Since that day you've changed so much again."

      "Perhaps I'm taking a holiday from Hell. And, as you know, I'm not a good traveller."

      He let down the window and threw away the end of his cigarette.

      "I thought you were going to die that day," he murmured half to himself. "When I handed you over to your maid. … Lady Barbara, why don't you take a little more care of yourself?"

      "D'you think I should be missed?"

      "I can well imagine—— Here! He's going wrong!"

      The carriage had overshot Berkeley Street; but, as Eric leaned towards the open window, Barbara caught him suddenly by the wrist and shoulder until she had turned him to face her.

      "Where d'you live?" she demanded peremptorily; and, when he had told her, "Put your head out and tell him to go there."

      "But we're almost in Berkeley Square now."

      "Do