Part 43 (1/2)
”If I will be your wife?” said Florence. ”Why do you wish it?”
”I think it would be a suitable match.”
”But do you love me?”
Franks paused when Florence asked him that direct question.
”I admire you very much,” he said.
”That has nothing to do with it. Admiration is not enough to marry on.
Do you love me?”
”I believe I shall love you.”
”May I ask you a very plain question?”
”What is that?”
”If I were not very clever, if I did not write those smart stories and those clever papers, would you, just for myself, just for my face, and my heart, and my nature, would you desire me as your wife?”
”That is scarcely a fair thing to ask, for I should never have met you had you not been just what you are.”
”Well, do you love me?” said Florence again.
”You are a very strange girl. I think on the whole I do love you. I fully expect to love you very much when you are my wife.”
”Did you ever love anybody else better than you love me?”
”I didn't expect, Miss Aylmer, to be subjected to this sort of cross-questioning. There was once a girl--” A new note came into Franks's voice, and for the first time those eyes of his were softened.
”She died,” he said softly; ”you can never be jealous of her: she is in her grave. Had she lived we should have been married long ago. Don't let us talk of her to-night. You and I can have a brilliant career. Will you say 'yes'?”
”I cannot answer you to-night. You must give me time.”
”Thank you; that is all I require. I am glad you will think it over. We can be married soon, for I have a good income. I want you to clearly understand that as my wife you continue writing. I want to lead you forth as one of the most brilliant women before the world. I can train you: will you submit to my training?”
Florence s.h.i.+vered slightly.
”I will let you know to-morrow,” she said.
”Come, let us go and have supper,” said Franks. He jumped up abruptly, offered Florence his arm, and took her into the supper-room.
The party broke up soon afterwards. Mrs. Trevor had no opportunity of seeing Florence, or, rather, she would not give herself an opportunity.
Mrs. Simpson shook hands with the young literary _debutante_ with marked favour. Florence looked prettier than anyone had ever seen her look before. Franks took his sister and Florence home to their flat. As he parted from the latter, he ventured to give her hand a slight squeeze.
”I will call to-morrow morning,” he said. ”Can I see you before I go to my work?”
”Yes,” said Florence; ”I shall be at home at”--she paused a moment--”nine o'clock,” she said somewhat eagerly.