“Devilish good of you...” Gaymer paused and took out his cigarette-case. “You talk just like your own plays.” He paused again and fumbled with an automatic lighter. “Babs Neave always used to say that.”
In his turn Eric paused and began to fill a pipe. They had gone too far into the Green Park for him to branch off and seek the Down Street station; he could not turn on his heel and refuse to walk farther with the fellow; yet Gaymer was steadily and progressively attacking him, first with common rudeness, then with a sneer at his work, finally with a depth-charge which he exploded to see what effect the name of Barbara would produce. Gaymer had known much and suspected all; he had been present, when Eric and Barbara first met at dinner with Lady Poynter; he had speculated with the rest of them and had once interrogated Barbara about her “writer fellow” until she froze his jesting... Intoxication might explain much, but it provided no motive for the baiting unless Gaymer wanted the satisfaction of a brawl which would contribute nothing to the problem of Ivy.
“Even off the stage one accepts a man’s word, until he’s proved that it’s unworthy of acceptance,” said Eric.
“And you’re satisfied with mine?,” asked Gaymer. “It’s not so long since you thought I’d broken my word to Ivy.”
He was still obviously exploring for a quarrel, but Eric would not help him.
“It’s easier, if we confine ourselves to the future,” he said. “You’ve given me your word and you can see Ivy—if she’ll see you; I’ll ask her to—as soon as she’s well enough. And you won’t try to get in touch with her till then, will you? I shan’t do anything to prejudice you. As a matter of fact, I’m going away for a few weeks, but, until the time comes, I’ll promise not to queer your pitch, if you’ll promise to wait till you’re sent for. Is that a bargain? After all, it’s not to the interest of either of us to injure her health.”
They had reached Lancaster House, and Eric held out his hand. Gaymer hesitated for a moment and then gripped it.
“I was only ragging you, Lane,” he said with an awkward laugh. “Dining with Aunt Margaret fairly gets on my nerves: she’s like a gramophone with all the newest and most expensive “intellectual” records. Turn the handle, put in a new needle; “The Psychoanalyst’s Ragtime Holiday, as played by the Freud-Jung syncopated orchestra”... Does she know anything about anything?... And that fellow Poynter riles me. ’Told me to-night that my job had fallen through and I was to be patient... He’s simply not trying... I’ll keep the bargain—letter and spirit. In the meantime you’re not announcing the engagement? I can’t consent to that, you know; it prejudices my chances, if Ivy has that to explain away.”
“I’ll wait till she’s seen you, if you like,” said Eric. “Honestly, it won’t make any difference to you, but I want to play fair. Good-night. One of us will write to you soon.”
The next day he broke the news to Ivy that he was going to the country. Her face fell at the prospect of being left alone, but the doctor came in before the discussion was over and quenched the first smoke of opposition.