"I'm thinking it over," he answered, a little startled. "I'm not a bit keen to leave you, Babs."
"D'you think I'm keen to lose you? Darling Eric, if you know what you mean to me … But you've got to get well!"
"I don't know why California should make the—waiting any easier."
"Ah, don't say I've made you ill! I'll say 'yes' Eric.… Now.… But I should only be able to give you a little piece of myself, I should always be divided.… I don't think you really want that, and you'd be simply wretched if you found you'd spoiled my life after saving it.… Eric, don't hurry me? It's only April. Wait till twelve months have gone by since the—news. If there's no further news … Wait till—my birthday!"
Next morning, Barbara departed to Crawleigh Abbey, and for a month they did not meet. As spring budded and blossomed into summer, Eric counted the days that separated him from the fulfilment of her promise. There was no reason for him to be anxious; but his mind was filled with nervous images, and imagination suggested a thousand fantastic ways in which Barbara might be snatched from him. As her birthday drew near, he forced a meeting with Agnes Waring and once more asked if there was any news of Jack.
"Nothing yet," she answered. "A long time, isn't it?"
"Very long.…" He hated himself for the hypocrisy of this conventional solicitude, when he was only impatient for authentic news that his best friend was dead. "You'll let me know …?"
"Of course I will, Eric," Agnes answered. "I don't know when——"
Her undramatic courage, reinforced by his own sense of make-believe sympathy, restored him to sincerity. Though he had never been in love with Agnes—as Barbara had taught him to understand the term—he was still fond of her.
"I wish you came to London sometimes," he said, beating his stick against the side of his boot. "It would make a little bit of a break for you. Will you let me give you dinner and take you to a play?"