“What in God’s name can I do?” he asked himself. “Ten days before I have a penny! Ten days!”
His mind dwelt persistently on one of those cheap, white-tiled restaurants, crowded with people, places formerly despised. If only there were a quarter in some forgotten pocket!
He had nothing to read, not even a magazine. No one to speak to. Not an earthly thing to do. He lay down on his bed and dozed away hours in a half-stupor. He began to imagine that he was already starving.
The next morning a letter slid under his door, as he had expected. But it was not the hoped-for letter from Frankie; it was from Minnie, and it enclosed a ten dollar bill. She wrote as his grandmother might have written—spoke of the difficulties of a young man, a stranger in the city. “Repay me when you are able,” she said, and signed herself “Frankie’s sister.”
He was furious.
“I suppose she thought I was hinting at a loan when I told her I hadn’t a penny in my pockets,” he thought. “She has no more sensitiveness than a rhinoceros.”
But in the end, he kept the money, knowing he could pay it back in nine days. And wrote at once to Minnie, thanking her. He made up his mind that he would never, never face her again. He would return the money by letter, and she shouldn’t hear of him again until he was a successful man and able to marry Frankie. His attitude at this future time would be amused, tolerant, very superior. He was horribly ashamed of himself for taking her money; it poisoned every mouthful he ate. He didn’t like her anyway; he was afraid of her. Neither was he grateful. Instinct was warning him of a snare.
II
There was another note from her the next day.
“Dear Mr. Naylor: If possible, will you please come to tea this afternoon at four? I want particularly to see you.