"And about Saturday?"
Until that moment he had decided to be immovable about the Saturday invitation. He did not want to go, he wanted still less to make her think that he was going to please her. But, when she stopped him before walking on alone to her house, he felt that their position must be regularized. He had a certain status of his own—and some little pride.
"Yes, I'll come. Delighted," he said with sudden determination.
"Good-night, dear."
"Good-night, Lady Barbara."
There was time for an unexpected hour's work; but his broken night and jarring day had exhausted him, and he was glad to hurry through his letters and get into bed. Once there he found himself too tired even for the routine of reading the evening paper; and, while he tried to make up his mind to stretch up a hand to the switch, he dropped asleep, clutching the Westminster Gazette and with the light blazing on to his face.
So he found himself five minutes later when the telephone-bell rang. The voice of a child, eager for praise, said:
"I'm in bed, Eric. And the light's out. And I'm going to sleep in one moment."
"I was actually asleep," he answered.
"My dear! And I woke you up? I am sorry. Go to sleep again at once! Good-night!"