Inspiration came from a wholly unexpected source. Frankie was sitting in her room in the dark one evening, after a walk with Lionel, exhausted from her effort to encourage him in a mood of black despair. She had drawn her chair up to the window and sat looking out over the roof of the next house at the cloudy sky. There was the usual noise from the court, the shrill children who never went to bed, the phonographs, a woman singing in a piercing, artificial voice. She was used to it now, scarcely heard it, but it filled her ears, and she was unaware of Miss Eppendorfer’s entrance until she touched her on the shoulder.
“I knocked and knocked!” said she. “I wanted to ask you to make me a cup of coffee; I’m so nervous.”
Frankie said ‘Of course’ but her voice was weary, and Miss Eppendorfer noticed it.
“What’s the trouble, my dear?” she asked, kindly. “Let’s sit here and talk a while.”
She sat down on the bed where she could reach out and lay a friendly hand on Frankie’s arm.
“I’ve noticed—it’s not curiosity.... It’s only that I’m very fond of you—you can’t imagine how fond of you, my dear.... I don’t expect you to return it. I know I’m not lovable. And probably you despise me for—lots of things. But, my dear! My dear! I do wish you so well! I’d do anything! If you’d like to tell me, perhaps I could help.... I’ve had experience enough. I could understand.”
Frances was silent. She couldn’t bring herself to confide in Miss Eppendorfer.
“I think I know,” the other went on. “It’s money, isn’t it? You want to marry, but you’re afraid.”
“Not afraid,” said Frances, nettled. “It’s only that I don’t want to be stupid—rash—— I don’t think it’s right to marry on nothing. I’d rather wait ten years.”
“You’re making a mistake,” said the authoress. “But tell me about it.”