Somewhat later than usual she joined her father the next morning in the coffee room.
“Brian tells me he is off today,” was Raeburn's greeting. “It seems that he must see that patient at Genoa again, and he wants to get a clear fortnight in Switzerland.”
“Is it nor rather early for Switzerland?”
“I should have thought so, but he knows more about it than I do. He has written to try to persuade your friend, Mr. Farrant, to join him in the Whitsuntide recess.”
“Oh, I am glad of that,” said Erica, greatly relieved.
Directly after breakfast she went out with her father, going first of all to French's bank, where Raeburn had to change a circular note.
“It is upstairs,” he said as they reached the house. “Don't you trouble to come up; you'll have stairs enough presently at the Uffizzi.”
“Very well,” she replied, “I will wait for you here.”
She stood in the doorway looking out thoughtfully at the busy Tornabuoni and its gay shops; but in a minute a step she knew sounded on the staircase, and the color rushed to her cheeks.
“I have just said goodbye to your father,” said Brian. “I am leaving Florence this morning. You must forgive me for having written last night. I ought not to have done it, and I understood your silence.”