"I'm too happy to be teased, Eric," she answered, nestling to his side. "It isn't the great play that you're going to write some day, when you've learned … and suffered; you still get your women out of rag-books and toy-shops; but it's very clever, it's a great success and it's made you happy. That's what matters. Who was the man in the box that you called 'sir'?"
"I call most men 'sir,' if they're older than I am."
"He was with a girl in a grey dress and some rather good pearls."
Eric thought for a moment and looked at her in some surprise.
"That was Colonel Waring—Jack's father. The girl was Jack's sister Agnes."
Barbara did not answer for a moment.
"I thought it was him at first," she whispered.
Since the night of Barbara's confession, Jack's name had never been mentioned. If he were indeed killed, her memory of him would gradually wither and die; and it was almost impossible to discuss him without taking sides and indulging in moral judgements. The Warings had exhausted every means of getting news and would soon be forced to presume his death; perhaps they had already done so, but Eric was avoiding Red Roofs since his discovery that he did not want to marry Agnes. Amid the turmoil of greetings and congratulations, he had found time to feel embarrassed by her presence in the box; until Barbara took the light and colour out of all other women, Agnes had satisfied every demand. He was embarrassed, too, by seeing the two girls face to face, watching, measuring and unobtrusively speculating about each other, as women always did; if there were room for moral judgements, Barbara had no defence against Jack Waring's sister.
"She gave me that glass horse-shoe for luck the night my first play was produced," said Eric irrelevantly.
"And Jack gave me the counterpart," Barbara sighed. "That's why I wanted yours to replace it. Instead of which I only broke yours."