"What an extraordinary girl!" thought Florence to herself; "but I suppose I like her. She is so fearfully downright, I feel almost afraid of her."

Miss Franks darted here and there, busy with her cooking. After a time, with a little sigh of excitement, Florence saw her put the extinguisher on the spirit-lamp. She then hastily lit the lamp with the green shade, and, placing it on the table where the verbena and the sweetbriar and mignonette gave forth such intoxicating odours, she laid a cup of steaming frothy cocoa by Florence's side, and a plate of biscuits not far off.

"Now then, eat, drink, and be thankful," said Miss Franks. "I love cocoa at this hour. Yours is made entirely of milk, so it will be vastly nourishing. I am going to enjoy my cup also."

She flung herself into the straw chair lined with cushions, and took her own supper daintily and slowly. While she ate, her bright eyes kept darting about the room noting everything, and from time to time fastening themselves with the keenest penetration on Florence's flushed face.

Florence felt that never in the whole course of her life had she enjoyed anything more than that cup of cocoa.

When the meal was finished Miss Franks jumped up and began to wash the cups and saucers.

"You must let me help you," said Florence. She sprang very determinedly to her feet. "I have done these things over and over for mother at home," she said, "and I really must wash my own cup and saucer."

"You shall wipe, and I will wash," said Miss Franks. "I don't at all mind being helped. Division of labour lightens toil, does it not? There, take that tea-towel; it is a beauty, is it not? It is Russian."

It was embroidered at each edge with wonderful st.i.tches in red, and was also trimmed with heavy lace.

"I have a sister in Russia, and she sent me a lot of these things when I told her I meant to take up housekeeping," said Miss Franks. "Now that we have washed up and put everything into apple-pie order, what about that ma.n.u.script?"

"What ma.n.u.script?" said Florence, starting and colouring.

"The one you brought into the room. You don't suppose I didn't see? You have hidden it just under that pillow on the sofa. Lie down once more on your place of repose, and let me run my eye over it."

"Would you?" said Florence. She coloured very deeply. "Would you greatly mind reading it aloud?"

"You have written it, I presume?" said Miss Franks.

Florence did not say anything. She shut up her mouth into rather a hard line. Edith Franks nodded twice to herself; then, putting on her pincenez, she proceeded to read the ma.n.u.script. She had a perfectly well-trained voice without a great amount of expression in it. She read on at first slowly and smoothly. At the end of the first page she paused for a moment, and looked full up at her companion.

"How well you have been taught English!" she said.

Still Florence did not utter a word.

At the end of the second page Miss Franks again made a remark.

"Your writing is so good that I have never to pause to find out the meaning of a word, and you have a very pure Saxon style."

"Oh, I wish you would go on, and make your comments at the end," said Florence then, in an almost cross tone.

"My dear, that answer of yours requires medicine. I shall certainly insist upon your taking a tonic to your room with you. I can dispense a little already, and have some directions by me. I can make up something which will do you a lot of good."

"Do go on reading," said Florence.

Edith Franks proceeded with the ma.n.u.script. Her even voice still flowed on without pause or interruption. At the end of the third or fourth page, however, she ceased to make any remarks: she turned the pages now rapidly, and about the middle of the story her voice changed its tone.

It was no longer even nor smooth: it became broken as though something oppressed her, then it rose triumphant and excited. She had finished: she flung the ma.n.u.script back almost at Florence's head with a gay laugh.

"And you pretend, you pretend," she said, "that you are a starving girl--a girl out of a situation! You are a sham, Miss Aylmer--you are a sham."

"What do you mean?" said Florence.

"Why, this," said Edith Franks. She took up the ma.n.u.script again.

"What about it? I mean, do you--do you--like it?"

"Like it? It is not that exactly. I admire it, of course. Have you written much? Have you ever published anything?"

"Never a line."

"But you must have written a great deal to have achieved that style."

"No, I have written very little."

"Then you are a heaven-born genius: give me your hand."

Florence slowly and unwilling extended her hand. Miss Franks grasped it in both of hers.

"Flexible fingers," she said, "but not exactly, not precisely the hand of an artist, and yet, and yet you are an artist through and through. My dear, you are a genius."

"I do not know why you say that."

"Because you have written that story, that queer, weird, extraordinary tale. It is not the plot alone: it is the way you have told it, the way the figures group themselves together, the strength that is in them, the way you have grasped the situation; and you have made all those characters live. They move backwards and forwards; they are human beings. I am so glad Johanna won the victory, she was so brave, and it was such a cruel temptation. Oh, I shall dream of that story, and yet you say you have written very little."

"You jump to conclusions," said Florence. She spoke in a queer voice. "I never told you that I had written that story."

"But you have, my dear; I see it in your face. Oh, I congratulate you."

"Would it be possible to--to publish it?" was Florence's next remark, made after a long pause.

"Publish it? I know half a dozen editors in London who would jump at it.

I know a good deal about writing, as it happens. My brother is a journalist, and he has talked to me about these things. He is a very clever journalist, and at one time I had a faint sort of dream that I might follow in his steps, but my own career is better--I mean for me.

Publish it; of course, you shall publish it. Editors are only too thankful to get the real stuff, but, poor souls! they seldom do get it.

You will be paid well for this. Of course, you will make up your mind to be an author, a writer of short stories, a second Bret Harte. Oh, this is splendid, superb!"

Florence got up from her sofa; she felt a little giddy. Her face was very white.

"Do you--do you know any publishers personally?" was her next remark.

"Not personally, but I can give you a list of half a dozen at least. I shall watch your career with intense interest, and I can advise you too.

I tell you what it is--on Sunday I will go and see my brother Tom, and I will tell him about you, and ask him what he would recommend. You must not give yourself away; you have a great career before you. Of course, you will lead the life of a writer, and nothing else?"

"Good night," said Florence; "I am very tired, but I am awfully obliged to you."

"Won't you wait until I make up your tonic?"

"I could not take it to-night. I have a bad headache; I want to go to bed. Thank you so very much."

"But, I say, you are leaving your darling, precious ma.n.u.script behind you." Miss Franks darted after Florence, and thrust the ma.n.u.script into her hand.