The telephone rang with a dull drone at the foot of his bed, and the girl made tentative movements of discreet departure.
"No, you deal with this!" Eric cried. "Out of London. You're not sure when I shall be back. Can you take a message?"
The girl picked up the instrument, while Eric glanced again through his letters.
"Hullo! Yes. Yes. He's—away, I'm afraid.… But, you see, he's away.…" She looked despairingly at Eric. "He's awa-ay!" Then breathlessly she clapped the receiver back.
"It was Lady Barbara Somebody; I couldn't hear the surname. She said you weren't away and she must speak to you. I thought it was best——"
Eric had to collect himself before answering. In the sane cold light of early morning the overnight escapade was a draggled, unromantic bit of folly. If he met Barbara again, he would make things as easy as possible: there would be no allusions, no sly smiles; the whole thing was to be forgotten. And yet she was already digging it from under the lightly sprinkled earth. If she were throwing herself on his mercy, it was unnecessary; he had said "Good-bye …" very distinctly. And she must surely know that she need not beg him not to talk.…
"You were quite right," he told his secretary. "Where were we? Oh, the manager——"
The bell rang again. Eric frowned and picked up the receiver, while the girl, after a moment's hesitation, tip-toed out of the room. Barbara had already disturbed his time-table for thirty seconds.…
"Hullo? Mr. Lane is away at present," he said. There was a pause. "I told you yesterday, Lady Barbara. Just as when you say 'Not at home.'… I'm exceedingly busy and I must have a few days to myself. Good-bye."
The constant factor in her overnight autobiography was that every one had always done what Barbara wanted; but, if she fancied that she was going to break into a working-day with any of her nonsense, she would be disappointed.