"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. Saturday brought him a heavy bundle of news-cuttings; but they were all concerned with "The Bomb-Shell." 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 embarrassed 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, embarrassed 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."