“Frances!” he cried.
“Please take it! Lionel! My dear boy! I couldn’t wear it.... She said—he had to pay for it. That it’s all his money.... Oh, my dear old Lionel, don’t you see? I’ll wait—till you can get me one—of your own!”
Regardless of passers-by, he put his arm about her waist.
“Frankie,” he said, “I’ll do exactly what you want—always. I know I’m not nearly good enough for you. Only tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want you to be a man!” she cried passionately, and began to cry again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I
Frances was a prey to remorse that night. She took into consideration Lionel’s upbringing, Horace’s indulgence to him, his own generous and careless nature, and she felt that she had hurt him cruelly and unjustly. The thought of his flouted ring brought her almost to tears.
He was very proud, very sensitive in his own queer way. She was even a little afraid that he wouldn’t come back, or that, if he did, he would be changed.
It was a great relief to hear him through the telephone, in quite his usual voice, at his usual hour of five o’clock.