6
As I hung up the receiver, I saw Barbara standing in the doorway. One hand gripped the moulding of the frame; the other was pressed to her side. I jumped up in sudden alarm and helped her to a chair, for her lips were moving without giving forth any sound.
“Babs! Darling heart, what’s the matter?,” I asked.
“That’s what I came to find out,” she answered with an effort that almost choked her. “George, you’re not going!”
“Not till you’re all right,” I promised. “Are you feeling faint? I shall have to go out for a bit: a man who’s waiting to see me at the office . . .”
“But you’re not going!,” she repeated frantically.
“It’ll only be for an hour or so . . .”
“It’ll be for all eternity! George, if you go, you won’t come back! Can’t you feel it? I know when death’s at hand! Have I ever been wrong? Uncle Bertrand. Eric . . . Oh, before the war! Jack Summertown and the other boys in Jim’s last party! I know, I know! You think I’m mad . . .”
“But, my dear, who’s going to kill me?,” I asked. “I’ve been in too many London fogs to fear them much; and, if you’re thinking of the hunger-marchers, I’m afraid the poor devils couldn’t do any mischief even if they wanted to. I made an appointment with a man . . .”
“With David. You put him before me?”