“I’ll have to go,” said Minnie, with a sigh, and held out her hand. “Mr. Naylor, I’d like to say a great deal more. You mustn’t look on me as your enemy by any means! Quite the contrary. If you and Frankie will trust to me a little—I could meet you to-morrow afternoon, on the downtown corner, about four. I’d like to talk to you more fully.”
He had no chance to answer, for she had hurried from the room; as he let himself out of the front door, he saw her running up the stairs to the disagreeable old voice.
Then he went out into the fog again, unreasonably comforted, unreasonably hopeful.
III
Of course he was waiting for Minnie the next day as she had appointed. She was late, as she always was, and Lionel had grown a little impatient.
He had much he wanted to say, a number of arguments he had arranged during the night. He couldn’t remember Minnie very well, but he had gained a vague impression that she was a kindly, pleasant little body, a bit meddlesome and without distinction, but nice. He felt that he could manage her. She had smiled very good-humouredly. He was far from despairing.
But he couldn’t help remembering so many other times when he had been waiting for his own dear girl, bright, brave old Frankie! Every memory of her was a pain; he could not endure to think of their parting, and her face, so hopeful, so full of tender anxiety for him. He longed so for her, for the support of her love and her courage. No one else would do, no other voice console him.
At last he saw Minnie coming, a queer, dowdy little figure in black, hurrying toward him with short, bobbing steps.
“I’m sorry!” she said, breathlessly, “but it’s not easy for me to get away.... Shall we walk? There are nice quiet streets about here.”
“Just as you please,” he answered. Some of his hopefulness had left him after the first proper daylight look at her. Her appearance was so discouragingly adult and reasonable; so altogether foreign to romance. She was not smiling either.