Eric paused to knock out his pipe and to reflect that, as he had made up his mind, there was nothing to gain by pitying himself or by growing angry with imaginary disputants. Sir Francis and Sybil came into the library to begin the day's work; his mother rustled to and fro, giving her orders. All that he had to do was to find an unoccupied table and settle down to work. The intimacy was over. In time he might care to think about it, he might even be able to meet Barbara, but at present he had to keep his mind absorbed with other thoughts.
He had schooled himself to a semblance of stoicism when he reached his office. It was temporarily undermined by a letter, also marked "Urgent," "By hand," which he found awaiting him.
"Christmas Day."
"I suppose you left London before my note arrived. I sent another and one to Lashmar, but the posts are so bad nowadays that I'm writing to your office as well. I don't think you told me how long you were going to be away, but please, I beg you, come and see me just for a moment when you're back in London. I must see you again, Eric. If you're not back to-morrow, you will be next day, I'm sure. Please ring me up the moment you get this. Barbara."
So she had lain waiting for him all Christmas Day, all Boxing Day; she was waiting now, and he had no idea how to tell her that he could not come.
The telephone rang, and he was surprised to hear Amy Loring's voice instead of Barbara's.
"Is that Mr. Lane? Oh, forgive me for disturbing you at your work. I expect you've heard that poor Babs is ill. Can you get to see her? She'd like it so much."
Eric caught himself resolutely shaking his head at the telephone.
"I'm afraid it's impossible. I've been away for Christmas, and the work here——"
"But can't you manage a moment? Look in on your way home."