Ivy drew herself upright in bed and stared at him, with parted lips:
“Eric, you must explain!”
“There’s nothing much to explain. It’s out of the question for me to marry at present...” He hesitated and looked away. “It’s not fair to ask you to wait two years.”
For a moment she did not answer. Then she cried:
“Of course I’ll wait! You know that!”
It was easier to keep his eyes on the ground than to meet hers. The valiant words were inevitable—at such a time and in such an atmosphere; the moment’s hesitation was not. And that, more than anything that she had said or hinted, cleared his mind of doubt.
“Well, we won’t talk about it any more at present,” he suggested. “Gaisford’s going to examine me again, and then we shall know rather better where we are. Don’t worry, Ivy. I’ve no intention of dying yet awhile. I only heard about it last night, so I haven’t had time to think much about the future.”
In the afternoon Eric returned to Wimpole Street for the further examination. The second report was fuller, but not materially different: one lung was affected, and with reasonable care he would be cured in a year or eighteen months. He again begged the doctor to say nothing at present to his parents or Ivy.
“There’s a lot to take into consideration,” he explained vaguely.
“I’m sorry about this business, Eric,” said Gaisford. “But I’m telling you the truth. If you’ll be patient—”