Part 21 (1/2)

”What do you mean?” was Florence's almost inane answer.

”How stupid you are!” Edith gave her a little shake. ”When I am excited--I to whom it means practically nothing, why should not you be?

Tom read it, and he means to show it to his chief. You are made, and I have made you. Kiss me; let me congratulate you. You will starve no longer; you will have plenty. What is more, you will have fame. You will be courted by the great; you have an honourable future in front of you.

Look up! Lose that lack-l.u.s.tre expression in your eyes. Oh, good gracious! the girl is ill.” For Florence had turned ghastly white.

”This is a case for a doctor,” said Edith Franks; ”lie down--that is better.” She pulled the cus.h.i.+ons away from the sofa and pushed Florence into a rec.u.mbent position.

”I have some sal volatile here; you must drink it.”

Edith rushed across the room, took the necessary bottle from her medical shelf, prepared a dose, and brought it to the half-fainting girl.

Florence sipped it slowly. The colour came back into her cheeks, and her eyes looked less dazed.

”Now you are more yourself. What was the matter with you?”

”But you--you have not given it; he--he has not shown it--”

”You really are most provoking,” said Miss Franks. ”I don't know why I take so much trouble for you--a stranger. I have given you what would have taken you months to secure for yourself: the most valuable introduction into the very best quarter for the disposal of your wares.

Oh, you are a lucky girl. But there, you shall dine with me to-night.”

”I cannot.”

”Too proud, eh?”

”Oh, you don't know my position,” said poor Florence.

”Nonsense! Go up to your room and have a rest. I will come for you in a quarter of an hour. I have ordered dinner for two already. If you don't eat it, it will be thrown away.”

”I am afraid it will have to be thrown away! I--I don't feel well.”

”You are a goose; but if you are ill, you shall stay here and I will nurse you.”

”No; I think I'll go upstairs. I want to be alone.”

Florence staggered across the room as she spoke. Edith Franks looked at her for a moment in a puzzled way.

”I shall expect you down to dinner,” she said. ”Dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour. Mind, I shall expect you.”

Florence made no answer. She slowly left the room, closing the door after her, and retired to her own apartment.

Edith Franks clasped both her hands to her head.

”Well, really,” she thought, ”why should I put myself out about an ungrateful girl of that sort? But there, she is deeply interesting: one of those strange vagaries of genius. She is a psychological study, beyond doubt. I must see plenty of her. I have a great mind to take up psychology as my special branch of the profession; it is so deeply, so appallingly interesting. Poor girl, she has great genius! When that story is published all the world will know. I never saw Tom so excited about anything. He said: 'There is stuff in this.' He said it after he had read a page; he said it again when he had gone half-way through the ma.n.u.script; and he clapped his hands at the end and said: 'Bravo!' I know what that means from Tom. He is the most critical of men. He distrusts everything until it has proved itself good, and yet he accepted the talent of that story without a demur.”

Miss Franks hurriedly moved about the room, changed her dress, smoothed her hair, washed her hands, looked at her little gun-metal watch, saw that the quarter of an hour had expired, and tripped downstairs to the dining-room.

”Will she be there, or will she not?” thought Edith Franks to herself.