It seemed a pity not to exploit a good idea to the full, and she next wrote to her cousin Amy Loring.
"You said the other day that you had never met Eric Lane, though he was a great friend of Jim's. He was at Margaret Poynter's the other day when I was there. Would you like me to invite him to dine one night next week (I shall be up in London for two or three days)? Ring me up between tea and dinner on Thursday.…"
There remained Colonel Grayle, who had jerked out, as she left the "Divorce" with George Oakleigh: "Clever play! Rather like to meet the author. Decent feller, I believe." If she met him again, she could offer to bring about a meeting.…
It was regrettable that she and Eric knew so few people in common.
3
Before leaving her dentist, Barbara telephoned to remind Eric of his promise to dine with her. His answering voice was almost audibly guilty, for the engagement had been allowed to fade from his mind, though his watchful secretary would have seen to it later that he kept his appointment.
When he arrived, the house was eerily dark and deserted. The door was opened by a girl in a black dress, presumably—from the absence of cap and apron—Barbara's own maid, and he was conducted through a twilit hall where the great chandeliers were draped in dusting-sheets, up a side staircase and over more dusting-sheets to the door of the boudoir. Here the evidence of desolation ended in vast bowls of autumn roses, a log fire, blazing electric lights and the beginnings of inevitable untidiness—ripped envelopes on the floor, a silk cloak in one chair and gloves in another and, on the hearth-rug, a chinchilla muff with a grey Persian kitten asleep half inside it.
Eric knelt down and played with the kitten until the bedroom door opened and Barbara hurried in.
"Glad to see me, Eric?" she whispered.
"I've—noticed you weren't here," he answered. "You're looking better, Babs. And I like your kitten."