As soon as she reached home, she was told by the sleepy butler that Mrs. Gaddesden was in the drawing-room, and that Mr. Anderson was still upstairs with Philip.

As she entered the drawing-room, her mother came running towards her with a stifled cry: 

“Oh, Lisa, Lisa!”

In terror, Elizabeth caught her mother in her arms.

“Mother—­is he worse?”

“No!  At least Barnett declares to me there is no real change.  But he has made up his mind, to-day, that he will never get better.  He told me so this evening, just after you had gone; and Barnett could not satisfy him.  He has sent for Mr. Robson.”  Robson was the family lawyer.

The two women looked at one another in a pale despair.  They had reached the moment when, in dealing with a sick man, the fictions of love drop away, and the inexorable appears.

“And now he’ll break his heart over Mr. Anderson’s going!” murmured the mother, in an anguish.  “I didn’t want him to see Philip to-night—­but Philip heard his ring—­and sent down for him.”

They sat looking at each other, hand in hand—­waiting—­and listening.  Mrs. Gaddesden murmured a broken report of the few words of conversation which rose now, like a blank wall, between all the past, and this present; and Elizabeth listened, the diamonds in her hair and the folds of her satin dress glistening among the shadows of the half-lit room, the slow tears on her cheeks.

At last a step descended.  Anderson entered the room.

“He wants you,” he said, to Elizabeth, as the two women rose.  “I am afraid you must go to him.”

The electric light immediately above him showed his frowning, shaken look.

“He is so distressed by your going?” asked Elizabeth, trembling.

Anderson did not answer, except to repeat insistently—­

“You must go to him.  I don’t myself think he is any worse—­but—­”

Elizabeth hurried away.  Anderson sat down beside Mrs. Gaddesden, and began to talk to her.

When his sister entered his room, Philip was sitting up in an arm-chair near the fire; looking so hectic, so death-doomed, so young, that his sister ran to him in an agony—­“Darling Philip—­my precious Philip—­why did you want me?  Why aren’t you asleep?”

She bent over him and kissed his forehead, and then taking his hand she laid it against her cheek, caressing it tenderly.

“I’m not asleep—­because I’ve had to think of a great many things,” said the boy in a firm tone.  “Sit down, please, Elizabeth.  For a few days past, I’ve been pretty certain about myself—­and to-night I screwed it out of Barnett.  I haven’t said anything to you and mother, but—­well, the long and short of it is, Lisa, I’m not going to recover—­that’s all nonsense—­my heart’s too dicky—­I’m going to die.”

She protested with tears, but he impatiently asked her to be calm.  “I’ve got to say something—­something important—­and don’t you make it harder, Elizabeth!  I’m not going to get well, I tell you—­and though I’m not of age—­legally—­yet I do represent father—­I am the head of the family—­and I have a right to think for you and mother.  Haven’t I?”