Eric felt ashamed of his rasping harshness.
"I don't know. That particular song always makes me cry. In spite of that," he looked at her, and smiled to himself. "No, I'm going to be very self-sacrificing. You said you wanted me to take you home, and I will—if you'll come at once."
"But it's not half-past nine yet."
"I don't care. My dear child, d'you think I can't see that you're tired, ill, over-excited——"
"It makes the night so long, Eric! But—thank you! I was beginning to think you were a prig, but I believe you're a saint!" The wistfulness left her eyes, and she smiled mischievously. "In moments of emotion how all our habits and practices break down! 'My dear child,' 'My dear child,' 'D'you think I can't see?' 'My dear child,' 'Tired, ill, over-excited.'"
"I'm sorry, Lady Barbara."
He tried to rise, but she pulled him back.
"You baby! Can't I make fun of you ever? It meant so much—just that little change in your voice when you forgot to be inhuman. I prefer 'dear child' to 'Lady Barbara' any day. Do you find it so hard to be affectionate, Eric?"
"I haven't tried. It would be impossible with you. I—I don't understand you. When I was dressing for dinner——"
"You thought you did? I'm so glad you thought of me, when you were dressing for dinner; I've a sort of feeling that it's not your practice to think of me when you're dressing for dinner."