He helped her up and accommodated her with a property foot-stool by Eric's chair, leaving her for a moment's resentful scrutiny by a young woman who had been arguing with winsome persuasiveness about a speech which Eric under pressure from Manders had consented to cut.
"Who's that, Eric?" Barbara whispered, as he settled into place.
"Mabel Elstree."
"H'm. She doesn't seem to like my being here.… Does everybody call you Eric?"
"You're well placed to answer that. Now, Lady Barbara, remember your promise: no talking!"
The act was played a second time, taking form and life as all warmed to their work. Eric watched with critical narrowed eyes, no longer scattering pencil-marks in the margin of the script, restrained, impassive and absorbed. Barbara sat with her hands clasped round her ankles and her head resting against his knee. Only when the act was ended did he seem to become aware of her; then he edged away and stood up.
"Better! Very much better! Just turn to the place where——" He rustled back into the middle of the act and had it played through to the curtain.
Half-an-hour later Barbara emerged into sunshine. Eric was tired and rather husky, but pleased and hopeful. His earlier irritability was forgotten save when it obtruded itself reproachfully to remind him that he had been scantly civil to the girl by his side.
"The next thing is a taxi," he murmured, as they came out into Shaftesbury Avenue.
"You wouldn't dream of taking me home and offering me some tea?" she suggested.