“I’ll find you a place,” she said, rashly.
“I’ll have to explain to him, though.... What shall I say?”
He really did not understand quite what was expected of him, or what he was doing. It was somehow a fine thing to renounce his comfort and security, and declare himself independent, and as long as Frances wished it, he was willing to do it. But it was a bit—theatrical. After all these years to refuse old Horace’s money.
“I’ll pop in and take lunch with him to-morrow,” he said.
“And tell him that you’re going to stand on your own feet,” urged Frances. “He’ll understand. And think all the more of you. Tell him—be sure—that you appreciate all he’s done for you, but that now you’re going to take care of yourself.”
“I’ll come and tell you about it as soon as it’s over,” he said. “You can expect me about three.”
She didn’t know with what a heavy heart he went upon this errand, or how well it proved his love and admiration for her. She didn’t know, or suspect, what he felt for Horace, and how he dreaded hurting him. Otherwise, she might have understood that he would necessarily be stupid and clumsy and muddle the whole thing, as he did....
II
Miss Eppendorfer was lying down in her bedroom, not to be disturbed. Kurt was not coming that evening, and the poor woman had seized the chance of gratifying her long-starved vice. So that Frances was as good as alone. She waited half an hour for Lionel without thinking much about it; they wouldn’t be able to talk anyway. She couldn’t go out and leave the authoress in her present condition, and she never entertained Lionel in the flat. They both considered it incorrect. Still, he could tell her what Horace had said. She was anxious about that interview. She was afraid that Horace might have begged him to go on living with him; that he might have weakened Lionel’s very new independence.