Barbara touched his wrist and nodded past him.
"Margaret's trying to speak to you," she said.
Eric galvanized his attention and turned with a murmur of apology.
"Mr. Lane, is it true that 'Mother's Son' was refused three—times?" Lady Poynter asked. She could not have been more righteously indignant if she had been judging the three denials of Saint Peter. "I've never heard of such a thing!"
"It wasn't quite in its present form," Eric explained. "The theme's the same, but I've rewritten almost every word."
Lady Poynter nodded triumphantly.
"Ah! Then I was right!" she informed her neighbour, and Eric was free to turn again to Barbara.
"Where had we got to?" he asked, after a moment's embarrassed silence.
"You came to the theatre after all. You saw me. You left after the first interval," she reminded him fearlessly. "As you seem to be—drawing an indictment, is that the phrase?—don't you think you'd better go on?"
"There's nothing more to say. Once or twice I wondered whether I should get home alive; and, on my soul, I prayed the whole time that I shouldn't.… I'm not drawing an indictment. I rather expected to hear from you.… It wasn't easy waiting.… As for America, I didn't see how it could possibly interest you.…" He broke off and whispered to himself, "God! what those days of waiting were like! I should have thought that, after what you'd been through … in common humanity——"