Erica showed this letter to her aunt, and of course there was nothing to prevent her going; indeed, Mrs. Fane-Smith was really rather relieved, for she thought a few days' absence might make things more comfortable for Erica, and, besides, Rose's illness made the days dull for her. It was about four o'clock when Donovan Farrant arrived. Erica felt as though she were meeting an old friend when she went into the drawing room, and found him standing on the hearth rug. “You have had my wife's note?” he asked, taking her hand. “Yes,” she replied. “And you will come?” “If you will have me.” “That's right; we had set our hearts on it. You are looking very tired. I hope Saturday did not upset you?” “No,” said Erica. “But there have been a good many worries, and I have not yet learned the art of taking life quietly.” “You are overdone, you want a rest,” said Donovan, whose keen and practiced observation had at once noticed her delicate physique and peculiar temperament. “You are a poet, you see, and as a wise man once remarked: 'The poetic temperament is one of singular irritability of nerve.'” Erica laughed. “I am no poet!” “Not a writer of verses, but a poet in the sense of a maker, an artist. As a reader of the 'Daily Review,' you must allow me to judge. Brian once showed me one of your articles, and I always recognize them now by the style.” “I don't deserve the name of artist one bit,” said Erica, coloring. “I would give all I have to destroy my article of today. You have not seen that, or you would not have given me such a name. “Yes, I have seen it; I read it this morning at breakfast, and made up my mind that you wrote it on Friday evening, after Lady Caroline's dinner. I can understand that you hate the thing now. One gets a sharp lesson every now and then, and it lasts one a life time.” Erica signed.. He resumed. “Well! Are you coming to Oakdene with me?” “Did you mean now at once today?” “If you will.” “Oh, I should so like to!” she cried. “But will Mrs. Farrant be expecting me?” “She will be hoping for you, and that is better.” Erica was noted for the speed with which she could pack a portmanteau, and it could not have been more than ten minutes before she was ready. Mrs. Fane-Smith wished her goodbye with a sort of affectionate relief; then Donovan helped her into the pony carriage, and drove briskly off through the Greyshot streets. “That is the place where I first heard your father,” he said, indicating with his whip the town Hall. “It must be sixteen years ago; I was quite a young fellow.” “Sixteen years! Did you hear him so long ago as that?” said Erica, thoughtfully. “Why, that must have been about the time of the great Stockborough trial.”