The Education of Eric Lane Part 25

"_Regret confined bed severe chill all success to dinner and congratulations and best wishes to our distinguished young friend._"

It was signed by the one absentee, whose chair still stood empty on the opposite side. Eric suddenly remembered Barbara's note: "_Imagine I'm sitting by you, darling._" As he read it, he wished that he could have brought her there; in the morning-room he had wished--no, he had thought how proud he would have been to tell Lord Ettrick that the story was true. If he could see her now in the empty chair, a rose behind one ear, a silk shawl broidered with grey birds in flight, as on the evening when they first met. . . .

But she would hardly come dressed as Carmen. And, however she arrayed herself, the Thespian Club would not admit her. . . .

"Well, have you thought out your speech?" asked Lord Ettrick.

"I've been thinking about what you said before dinner," Eric answered.

"Don't take it too seriously. You know how people talk."

"Yes, but I don't want them to talk like that about _her_! She's the best friend I've got."

He hesitated in surprise at his own vehemence.

"Have you observed one thing?" Lord Ettrick enquired after a pause.

"Neither of us has mentioned the lady's name."

"Well----"

"Exactly. Well, if it wasn't necessary for me, who after all don't go about very much--But you needn't take it to heart."

"Oh, I'm not," said Eric carelessly. "And, as you said, I shall only have myself to blame if the story's not scotched here and now."

"I'll propose the King's health now," said Lord Ettrick, "and then we can have something to smoke."

2

By the simple standard of applause, Eric achieved a success. Abandoning his prepared speech, he followed Lord Ettrick's lead, picked up his cues and surrendered himself to the moment. It was something of a triumph to amuse others when he was so little amused himself.

"Not nearly long enough," said Dr. Gaisford, as Eric looked furtively at the watch on his wrist. He was wondering how soon he could go home and telephone to Barbara.

"Shall we go upstairs or sit here?" asked Lord Ettrick. "Manders ought to be with us in another half-hour."

Eric remembered with consternation that he would be expected to stay at least until midnight. There was no escaping it. Five and thirty men, his friends and entertainers, were preparing for a long, happy session; their chairs were turned at comfortable angles, they had shuffled and sorted themselves into congenial groups, each was at the earliest stage of a long cigar, and they waited on him in turn like an endless series of deputations.

"I've discussed the nightly takings of a theatre with Ettrick," he whispered, when Manders arrived at half-past eleven as vigorous and high-spirited as if he had just got out of bed; "the Dardanelles expedition with Gaisford, the plays of Synge with George Oakleigh, 'The Bomb-Sh.e.l.l' with Vincent Grayle, memories of Jessie Farborough with Deganway, 'The Bomb-Sh.e.l.l' with Grierson, Ibsen with Harry Greenbank, and 'The Bomb-Sh.e.l.l' with Donald Butler. I'm worn out!"

"Stay a bit longer, boy," Manders begged. "I've only just come."

When at last he escaped, there was no taxi to be had, though Eric told a waiter to keep the first that drove up. He covered half of the way to Ryder Street at a run, threw himself on his bed and asked for the familiar number in Berkeley Square.

After a long interval a sleepy voice said: "Yes? My dear, you _are_ late! I've rung you up again and again. I--Eric, I was afraid you were angry with me for sulking."

"I say, Babs!" He began earnestly and had no idea how to go on. "Angry with you? Don't be so ridiculous! I got a very sweet note from you to-night. Thank you. And I think the speech went down all right. I say, Babs. . . ."

"You're out of breath, sweetheart."

"I came home in rather a hurry. Can you see me some time? I suppose you're going to Crawleigh to-morrow--That's no good. Can you dine with me on Tuesday?"

"I wanted you to come here on Tuesday."

"You never said anything about it. Will you be alone?"

"I'm afraid not. Eric, will you be honourable? It's my half-birthday; I always have two a year. I didn't tell you, because I was afraid you'd rush out and buy me a present. And I couldn't bear to receive anything more from you. But will you come _without_ a present? I've got a little party."

"I should love it. Thank you, Babs. But I want to see you alone."

She was silent for several moments.

"You're very mysterious, darling," she said at last.

"I heard something to-night that rather upset me----"

"About Jack?"

A thrill of expectation had come into her voice.

"Oh, no! It's one of those things that wouldn't matter if we weren't all congenital idiots."

"It's not something I've done?"

"My dear child, no!"

"Won't you tell me what it is?"

"I'd rather not on the telephone. I may get a moment on Tuesday; if not, can you dine with me here the next night?"

"_Alone?_" Her laugh mocked him without malice. "I insist on bringing my kitten."

He joined in the laugh.

"You may bring the kitten. I know I'm asking you to do something that I disapprove of, but I'm rather worried and I must see you alone."

For three days he explored cautiously to discover how far the Ettrick story had spread. Sat.u.r.day brought him a heavy bundle of news-cuttings; but they were all concerned with "The Bomb-Sh.e.l.l." No one wrote to him, no one confronted him with a blunt question, though Ettrick had protested that the story was common property. When Eric walked to Berkeley Square for the birthday party, he was embarra.s.sed for the first time in shaking hands with Lord Crawleigh; sooner or later he would be summoned to a very unpleasant interview.

It was obvious at a glance that no one would have private conversation with Barbara that night. She stood in the drawing-room at the apex of a triangle with a compact row of parents behind and, supporting them, a longer row of silent, embarra.s.sed brothers; cousins in every degree described a circle round the triangle, and in a wider, looser circle stood people who knew Eric and needed diplomatic handling to hide his forgetfulness of them.

"My aunt's parties are like a Derby Day crowd," panted Amy Loring, as an unseen pianist began to play and they were squeezed into the embrasure of a window. "I've not had time to see who's here yet. Babs, of course, looks divine."

"She looks well in anything," Eric answered. It was dangerous to praise her even to her own cousin lest one more voice should rise to proclaim that he was in love with her.

"You're a great friend of hers, aren't you?" Amy asked. "Some one told me at tea to-day----"

Eric became rigid, and she stopped.

"Yes?"