or seen you any time since that night. On the night itself he could have
asked you to let him come and see you. He didn't raise a finger! And you
still hypnotize yourself with one excuse after another--How much longer
are you going on?"
"I don't know, Eric." She covered her eyes for a moment and then rose to
her feet. "I'm bound in honour, as I've told you a hundred times. When I
know definitely----"
"Anything you know will have to be known to-night."
"But if you found a cable waiting for you in New York----"
"It would tell me what I know already--plus the fact that your vanity
had been convinced in spite of itself."
"I prefer 'honour' to 'vanity.'"
"Hadn't we better leave 'honour' out of the discussion?"
She looked at him for a moment, her mouth tightly shut; then, declining
his arm, she began walking slowly eastward. Opposite Bath House Eric
hailed an empty taxi and told the driver to take them to Berkeley
Square.
"You wouldn't like me to drop you in Ryder Street?" Barbara asked.
"Not even to gratify your love of artistic finish."
"How you hate me!" she whispered with a catch in her breath.
"No, I love you as much as ever; I need you more than ever. Whatever
happens to you, I wish you all happiness. You once undertook my
education, but I can tell you that you'll never find the happiness I'm
wishing you till you learn to sink yourself and think of other people."
Barbara looked at him like a startled animal, then looked away.
"Haven't I sunk myself, haven't I thought of Jack before any one else
for two and a half years?" she whispered.
"No, you've thought solely of yourself--with Jack as a limelight. At
this moment you're thinking less of Jack or me than of your _amour
propre_."
"You must be thankful to be rid of me after the way I've sacrificed you
to my vanity."
"You'll outgrow your vanity."
"Perhaps Jack still wants me in spite of the way I've behaved to _him_."
"Perhaps so. I shan't be here to see."
The taxi turned into Berkeley Street, and Eric held out his hand.
"Good-bye, Barbara," he said.
"Won't you come in for a moment?"
"No, thank you."
"Eric, you must! There's something I want to say to you! Eric, I _beg_
you to come in."
He opened the door without answering and stood on the kerb, ready to
help her out. She delayed so long that the driver turned curiously
round.
"Eric, please!" she entreated.
"Have you your latch-key?"
She gave a choking sob, as she mounted the steps, and Eric set his
teeth; suddenly losing control, she gripped him by the arm.
"Eric, you're _not_ going to-morrow!"
"Indeed I am."
"When?"
"That's immaterial. Good-bye."
He returned to the taxi and pressed himself into the corner, staring
ahead so that he should not see the familiar ermine coat on the
door-step. Barbara fumbled blindly with the lock and spun round, as the
taxi began slowly to turn. As the driver changed speed, she dropped her
key and ran twenty yards down the square, crying "Eric!"; but the
grinding of the gears drowned her voice.
The tail-light dwindled to a ruby pin-point and vanished. . . .
The telephone-bell was ringing, as Eric entered his flat. He unhooked
the receiver and tossed it on to his bed; but after a moment's silence
there broke out a persistent metallic buzzing, while the bells in the
other rooms rang with all their accustomed clarity. He began to undress;
but the merciless noise racked his nerves. There was nothing for it but
to tie a handkerchief round the clapper of the bell. . . .
Then he threw himself in shirt and trousers on the bed and buried his
face in his hands.
* * * * *
"_A man does not continue drinking corked champagne. With women, his
palate is less critical._"--From the Diary of Eric Lane.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Education of Eric Lane, by Stephen McKenna