“Does Mr. Nixon recommend that Oliver should go abroad for the winter?” asked Alicia, after a pause.  She was sitting on the arm of a chair, her slender feet hanging, and the combination of her blue linen dress with the fiery gold of her hair reminded Lady Lucy of the evening in the Eaton Square drawing-room, when she had first entertained the idea that Alicia and Oliver might marry.  Oliver, standing erect in front of the fire looking down upon Alicia in her blue tulle—­his young vigor and distinction—­the carriage of his handsome head—­was she never to see that sight again—­never?  Her heart fluttered and sank; the prison of life contracted round her.

She answered, rather shortly.

“He made no plan of the kind.  Travelling, in fact, is absolutely forbidden for the present.”

“Poor Oliver!” said Alicia, gently, her eyes on the ground.  “How horrid it is that I have to go away!”

“You!  When?” Lady Lucy turned sharply to look at the speaker.

“Oh! not till Saturday,” said Alicia, hastily; “and of course I shall come back again—­if you want me.”  She looked up with a smile.

“Oliver will certainly want you; I don’t know whom he could—­possibly—­want—­so much.”  Lady Lucy spoke the words with slow emphasis.

“Dear old boy!—­I know,” murmured Alicia.  “I needn’t be long away.”

“Why must you go at all?  I am sure the Treshams—­Lady Evelyn—­would understand—­”

“Oh, I promised so faithfully!” pleaded Alicia, joining her hands.  “And then, you know, I should be able to bring all sorts of gossip back to Oliver to amuse him.”

Lady Lucy pressed her hand to her eyes in a miserable bewilderment.  “I suppose it will be an immense party.  You told me, I think, that Lady Evelyn had asked Lord Philip Darcy.  I should be glad if you would make her understand that neither I, nor Sir James Chide, nor any other old friend of Mr. Ferrier can ever meet that man on friendly terms again.”  She looked up, her wrinkled cheeks flushed with color, her aspect threatening and cold.

“Of course!” said Alicia, soothingly.  “Hateful man!  I too loathe the thought of meeting him.  But you know how delicate Evelyn is, and how she has been depending on me to help her.  Now, oughtn’t we to go back to Oliver?” She rose from her chair.

“Mr. Nixon left some directions to which I must attend,” said Lady Lucy, turning to her desk.  “Will you go and read to him?”

Alicia moved away, but paused as she neared the door.

“What did Mr. Nixon say about Oliver’s eyes?  He has been suffering from them dreadfully to-day.”

“Everything is connected.  We can only wait.”

“Are you—­are you thinking of a nurse?”

“No,” said Lady Lucy, decidedly.  “His man Richard is an excellent nurse.  I shall never leave him—­and you say”—­she turned pointedly to look at Alicia—­“you say you will come back?”