Daphne started.
"Roger!—to live?" she repeated, in horror. "What is really the matter? Surely nothing more than care and a voyage could set right?"
French shook his head.
"We have been anxious about him for some time. That terrible attack of septic pneumonia in New York, as we now know, left the heart injured and the lungs weakened. He was badly nursed, and his state of mind at the time—his misery and loneliness—left him little chance. Then the drinking habit, which he contracted during those wretched months in the States, has been of course sorely against him. However, we hoped against hope—Elsie and I—till a few weeks ago. Then someone, we don't know who, made him go to a specialist, and the verdict is—phthisis; not very advanced, but certain and definite. And the general outlook is not favourable."
Daphne had grown pale.
"We must send him away!" she said imperiously. "We must! A voyage, a good doctor, a dry climate, would save him, of course they would! Why, there is nothing necessarily fatal now in phthisis! Nothing! It is absurd to talk as though there were."
Again French looked at her in silence. But as she had lost colour, he had gained it. His face, which the East End had already stamped, had grown rosy, his eyes sparkled.
"Oh, do say something! Tell me what you suggest?" cried Daphne.
"Do you really wish me to tell you what I suggest?"
Daphne waited, her eyes first imploring, then beginning to shrink. He bent forward and touched her on the arm.