"Well, you haven't broken my luck, as you feared."
Her shoulder, pressing against his, communicated a shudder. Though three months had passed without news of Jack, Barbara could not feel secure even when she was alone with Eric.
"Don't boast. You may yet come to curse the day when we met, you may find I've spoiled your life and broken your luck."
"Luck?" Eric laughed a little scornfully. The success of the "Bomb-Shell" ensured that, if he never wrote another line, he would at least not starve. "When are we going to meet again, Babs?"
Looking out of the window, she saw that their cab was opposite the Ritz and that she had three hundred yards more of him.
"Does it matter?" she asked. "If you're so independent of me?"
"I can live without peach-brandy, but I like it. If you'll dine with me, I'll give you some—and all the food you most like. I owe the O'Ranes a dinner——"
"Oh, we won't have any one else!" she interrupted. Her use of the plural lost none of its charm by familiarity. "I'll come on Friday, if you like."
"On Friday old Ettrick is giving a dinner in my honour at the club. What about Monday? But I shan't let you come alone; as a matter of fact, I've invited the O'Ranes for that night."
"You don't like being alone with me?"