“What about a walk this evening?” he suggested. “I’ll be waiting at the door for you at eight.”
He was remarkably solemn and correct; he took Frankie’s arm without a word and set off toward Madison Avenue. It was a warm, misty evening in late September, enervating weather. Frankie was tired and nervous and filled with apprehension. Was he going to reproach her?
He pulled out of his pocket a little bundle of papers fastened by a rubber band, and gave it to her.
“My bank book,” he said, “and all the other stuff. You’d better take charge of it, old girl.... I’ll tell you just how I stand, and you can tell me what I’d better do.”
“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, “You dear old thing! And I was so afraid you’d be hurt or offended!”
“I think you’re right—all that you said,” he answered seriously. “I want to make a new start—begin over again. Only it’s rather hopeless. I’ve a hundred and five pounds a year income from my mother, and that’s all. No prospects. Not a relative who could leave me a son. And eighty dollars in the bank. Rather dismal, isn’t it?”
“Not a bit! Fancy having an income, and calling the outlook dismal! And you’re young, you’ve got everything before you. You’re sure to find a good job before very long——”
“Yes, but my dear girl, that eighty dollars is all I’ve got to live on for three months and a half, until my next remittance comes. Unless I stop on in Horace’s office——”
“No, no! You mustn’t stay there! Please, please break off all that, won’t you?”
“Whatever you say, old girl. But where am I to live if I leave Horace’s?”