He flapped the script impatiently on his knee as the now familiar knock of Eric's parlour-maid was heard yet again.
"Lady Barbara Neave to see you, sir," she whispered a little breathlessly.
"Will you please say that I can't possibly see any one?" Eric answered curtly. "Tell her that two gentlemen have come to see me on business. Ask her to leave a message."
He turned to find Manders smiling, as though to say, "Why didn't you tell us? We should have understood. We're men of the world."
"The first act," Eric repeated earnestly. "As you will, but do go ahead with it. I want some lunch."
For five seconds the three men turned the limp, dog's-eared pages until they had found the place. Manders cleared his throat unreservedly and then looked up with an expression of ebbing patience, as the door opened again. This time there was no knock, and Lady Barbara walked in after hesitating for a moment on the threshold to identify Eric. She was wearing a black dress with a transparent film of grey hanging from the shoulders, a black hat shaped like a butterfly's wings with her hair visible through the spider's web crown. One hand swung a sable stole, the other carried to and from her mouth a half-eaten apple.
"Eric, please invite me to lunch with you!" she begged. "You've such delicious food. I was shewn into your dining-room and I could hardly resist it. There's a dressed crab—I behaved perfectly, I didn't touch it—and, if all three of you had the weeniest little bit less, there'd be enough for us all. Hullo, there's Mr. Manders!"
She shook hands and waited for Eric to introduce Grierson.
"You're interrupting an important discussion, Lady Barbara."
"Is it about your new play? Oh, then I can help! But, if you knew how hungry I was——"