A less diplomatic version would have recounted that, as I hurried round to Ryder Street, I saw Eric getting out of the taxi in front of me. His front-door slammed as I was halfway up the stairs; and, when I said something to the maid about being one of his older friends, I was informed that Miss Maitland was still seriously ill. Divining that Miss Maitland could not be occupying all the rooms in the flat, I scribbled a note in which I begged Eric to see me for two minutes. A verbal message apprised me that Mr. Lane was engaged; and I went away, more hurt, I believe, than ever in my life before. Since his interrupted romance with Ivy, the fellow could bear me no grudge for marrying the woman he had tried so long to win; our friendship went back, sixteen years, to Oxford and the dinners of the Phœnix. There were not too many survivors from those days; and, coming to sympathize, I had seen my sympathy flung back in my face. I made every allowance for his illness and misery; but I could not write to him, at least for the present and, when a letter from him, several months later, hurtled like a flask of vitriol from California to England, I was too nearly blinded to attempt an answer. “Will you call again?,” asked Barbara perfunctorily. “I don’t suppose he wants to be bothered,” I said. There was a long silence; and Barbara’s shoulders moved in a slight shrug: “I don’t suppose he wants to be friends. I tried, when we met at Croxton; but, when there’s been love, I don’t think you can go back to friendship.” She looked at me almost guiltily; and for an embarrassed moment I feared that I was to be drawn into yet one more unwanted confidence. Then, changing her mind, she walked slowly to the fire and stood with the dancing flames reflected in her sombre eyes. “I’m . . . _glad_ he’s going,” she murmured at last. “I’ve not really been myself since I met him again, whatever I told you about feeling free. When you wanted me to come with you to Ireland . . . I was mad. I’ll go with you now, if you like . . . anywhere. We’ve talked so often about a fresh start: I can make it now. I _do_ want our life to be a success. If there’s anything I can do . . .” “You can’t do more than you’re doing at present,” I said. With a sudden turn, Barbara flung her arms about my neck and hid her face against my chest. “Is there nothing more that you want?,” she asked. “Don’t say ‘your happiness’! I know you want that, darling. Don’t you want anything for yourself? Don’t you want me to be like other women? Don’t you want me to have children?” “Most men want children,” I said, “but women have to bear them.” “Yes . . . I’ve always wanted children and I’ve always been afraid of them. I’m still afraid, . . . but I’m going to have one now, George, . . . for your sake. You’re pleased? Hold me tight, darling, and promise me one thing. If anything goes wrong . . .” “But, good God . . .!,” I began.