"Don't you like her, Eric?" asked Mrs. Shelley. "Most people fall a victim the first time they meet her."
"I've outgrown the susceptible age," he laughed. "And, anyway, I'm working. It's awfully kind of you to invite me, Mrs. Shelley——"
"Eric, I wish you'd reconsider," she interrupted before he could repeat his refusal. "I feel you'll be doing her a kindness by coming; you amused her and turned her thoughts.… I was dreadfully distressed last night; she looked as if she were going into a decline.…"
In contrast to Mrs. Shelley's toneless voice Eric heard again Barbara's abrupt, startling cry, "You're hopeless, hopeless!"—just before she collapsed limply on the sofa and cried about something which she would not explain.…
"You make it impossible for me to refuse," he said with an uneasy laugh.
"I'm so grateful! I knew you'd come, Eric."
He threw back the bed-clothes and rang for his bath.
"I suppose Lady Barbara will think she knew I was coming, too," he said to himself. "I don't mind being made a fool of once.…"
At noon he tidied his papers and lighted a cigarette while he waited for a call from his agent. The "Divorce" was being produced in America; and for an arid, perplexing half-hour Mr. Grierson, with eyes half-closed in the grey smoke of his cigar, pushed cables, letters, copies and a draft agreement across the table.
"Stay and have some lunch," Eric suggested, as half-past twelve struck. "Manders is due any time now. He wants me to make certain alterations in the 'Bomb-Shell,' and you can keep me in countenance. I'm getting rather tired of being told: 'Of course, with great respect, Lane, you're a new-comer to the theatre.…' New-comer I may be, but it doesn't lie in Manders' mouth to say so, if he'll trouble to calculate how many thousands I've put in his pocket.… Isn't this the sort of time when one has a cocktail?"