She turned away to the table, but stopped at the sound of laughter from Eric. He had hesitated a moment before taking the risk, but laughter seemed the only corrective for her theatrical dignity.
"I spend hours each day watching people rehearsing this sort of thing," he murmured.
"Why do you imagine I ask you to see me home?" she demanded, with a petulant stamp.
"Partly because you're enjoying me; partly because you know I want to work and you think it will be such fun to upset my arrangements even by ten minutes."
Barbara smiled at him over her shoulder.
"We're a game all," she pleaded, motioning him back to the sofa.
Eric smiled and lit a cigarette from the stump of his cigar.
Ten minutes later they were driving along Piccadilly towards Berkeley Square, Eric rather tired, Barbara excited and restlessly voluble.
"Is Mr. Lane going to forget our second meeting as quickly and completely as he forgot the first?" she asked.
"The first?" Eric echoed. "This is the first time I've set eyes on you—except in the distance at theatres and places."