My agent protested with touching fervour, but I was uneasy at being separated from Barbara. Two days after I landed at Kingston, she telegraphed: “_Missing you dreadfully hope you arrived safely and are coming back immediately all my love bless you_”; and, if her language seemed still a trifle neurotic, she had almost recovered her tranquillity by the time she wrote to describe the Whitsuntide party at Croxton Hall. The week-end had been uneventful; and, though Eric Lane was in the house, I could not read any embarrassment between the lines that described their meeting. The nervous excitability, however, of which I had seen too much evidence in London, betrayed itself once in a comment on a rumour: “_You remember the Miss Maitland you met with the O’Ranes? She’s here. A pretty little thing! Obviously in love with Eric. I’d give anything to see him happily married, but I hope he’s not serious about this child. She’s too hopelessly young, she’d send him mad in a week. It’ll be too tragic if he lets another woman make a mess of his life._” The next day Barbara telegraphed again, telling me once more how much I was being missed and offering to join me at Lake House. I returned to London as soon as I had finished my business and was met at Euston by a shivering form in a scarlet tea-gown and an ermine cloak. “You crazy child, you’ll give yourself pneumonia!,” I cried as I hurried her into the car through a double line of smiling porters. “That’s a pretty way to greet me when I’ve stayed up all night for you!,” Barbara laughed. “I _am_ glad to see you again, George, though that wasn’t why I came to meet you. It’s your little friend Ivy Maitland: she’s gone down suddenly with appendicitis.” “Well, I’m very sorry, of course . . .” I began. “Yes, dear, but we must do something about it. You know she was acting as Eric’s secretary while his own girl had a holiday? Yes! And this child has collapsed in his flat. Dr. Gaisford’s attending her; and he says she’s not to be moved on any consideration whatsoever. When I heard about it last night, I felt we _must_ offer Eric a couple of rooms till she can return home. Things being as they are, though . . .” Barbara faltered and turned away. “It’s all such a muddle that I thought I couldn’t ask him without your permission.” From her consulting me, I surmised that she doubted the wisdom of her impulse. From my knowledge of Eric, I imagined he would sleep on the Embankment before he accepted a bed from us. If Barbara wished to make a sign of friendship, however, I would not check her. “You don’t need my permission,” I said. “If you think it will do any good for us to invite him . . .” 5