We received our answer before the invitation could be sent. At the end of breakfast, Lady John Carstairs telephoned to say that she had herself placed her house at Eric’s disposal, but that he preferred to remain in Ryder Street till the girl was out of danger. On my way to Fetter Lane, I left some flowers and a card bidding Eric to let us know if we could be of any service; but we heard nothing till a week later, when O’Rane telephoned to catch me for five minutes before I went to bed. “I couldn’t get round before,” he apologized, “and I thought you ought to know. Poor old Eric! He’s getting all his troubles in a lump. Where’s Babs? I’m afraid she ought to hear this, too.” I was under the impression that she had gone to bed half an hour before; but I heard sounds in the drawing-room, almost as though she had expected news of Eric and was staying up because it was bad news. “What’s happened to him now?,” I asked, as we went upstairs. “He’s been ordered abroad immediately,” O’Rane answered. “California. Lungs.” I do not know whether Barbara heard more than the last word; but she seemed to rise from her chair and cross the room in a single movement. O’Rane’s expression changed to wonder and then softened to pity as she caught and gripped his hand. No name had been mentioned in her hearing; but I think we both realized that he and I and all the world—with one exception—might be ordered to California for our lungs without striking an equal terror into her heart. In that moment I knew how far I had always been from winning her love. O’Rane, I feel, atoned for want of sight by keenness of hearing. I fancied that a little of the pity in his expression might be intended for me. “Is he . . . dying?,” Barbara whispered.