"Thinking over your wasted opportunities?" she asked, as she sat down beside Eric.
"There are none," he answered lazily. "I've been a great success to-night. I can see that our host won't rest content till I've promised to dine here three times a week to drink his port; I've been good value to Lady Poynter; if I play bridge, I shall lose a lot of money to Gaymer—not that I don't play quite a fair game, but I'm sure, without even seeing him, that he plays a diabolically good game and I know I shall cut against him. Mrs. Shelley? Every one's always a success with her; talking to her is as demoralizing as cracking jokes from the Bench. Mrs. O'Rane wants me to write her a duologue—just as one draws a rabbit for a child.… That only leaves you. And you capitulated more completely even than Poynter, without the '63 port as an introduction and bond."
Barbara looked at him with a dawning smile.
"I think you're the most insufferably conceited young man I've ever met!" she exclaimed.
"I'm adjusting the balance. If you hadn't disparaged me the whole way through dinner.… Now, when you got up here, you pumped Mrs. Shelley with both hands for everything you could get her to tell you about me. Didn't you?"
"Well?"
Eric smiled to himself.
"She's the only one here who knows me, but she didn't tell you much."
"I shan't say."
Three impatient voices from the bridge-table met and struggled in an unmelodious chorus of "Babs! Come—here!"