Her voice broke, and her hand on Frankie’s arm trembled.
“My dear, I’m speaking against my own interests, for of course I don’t want to lose you.... But you don’t understand, you don’t appreciate love. It isn’t a home that you want. My dear! My dear! And would you let him wait and eat out his heart, for years, for your vanity, until he could give you all the silly little things you think you want? You don’t know men, you don’t know life; you don’t know how very short a time we have for love. You don’t know him. You don’t know anything. If you did, you wouldn’t let this go! You’d be happy while you could, you’d make him happy.”
Frances didn’t stir; there was absolute silence for a long time. Then she got up.
“I’ll make the coffee now,” she said, and, in spite of herself, couldn’t keep a trace of gentleness out of her tone, something that approached tenderness. She hated sentimentality, but—no use denying that she was deeply moved by the poor woman’s vehemence, by the thought she had conveyed. Of course, the advice of Miss Eppendorfer was not to be taken too seriously, and yet, couldn’t she be right on some points? She attended to the coffee with earnestness, thinking all the while. What if she had been cold and selfish, and made her own dear boy unhappy? A coward?... And a faint realisation of the truth not fully seen or known till much later came upon her, of the pitiful folly of waiting, of patience and of prudence in this poor life so short and so hazardous.
“I will! I will!” she said to herself. “He shan’t struggle on alone. I won’t lose my happiness—our happiness. I’m not afraid!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I
She hurried downstairs to meet Lionel the next evening, flushed and resolute.
“Let’s walk!” she said.
“It’s raining——”