He preserved silence for a time, then suddenly sat upright and faced her. A new light shone in his eyes. “I am the dullest person on earth,” he protested. “All this time I have not thought of it. I want to ask you a thousand things about your sister. Did you not know?—She is my oldest friend in England.”
Cora drew a long breath, and held up her fan for a protracted and attentive inspection. “Oh, yes—you mean Frank,” she said, tentatively.
“Frank? Is that her name? She works. She has a machine à écrire—a typewriter it is called. You must tell me about her! Is she very well? And where is she to be found? How shall I go about it to recall myself to her?” As there came no immediate response, he put his further meditations into dreamy words: “She spoke the first kind words to me, here in England. I bade farewell to France and the old hard life, in her company. It was she who pointed with her finger for me to have my first look at England—the little, rose-colored island in the green water, with the purple clouds above it. It seemed that we were very close together—on that one day. And I was so full of the thought of seeing her very soon again! And that was September—and now it is very nearly May!. . . But you have not told me! Where is it that she is to be found? Where does she live?”
“She lives at home with my people,” Cora replied, still with reflective deliberation. It was with a visible effort that she shook off the preoccupied air into which she had lapsed. “But you don’t want to go there—it’s out of the world—red-busses and green-busses and a tram and that sort of thing. But she has an office now of her own; that’s where you’d find her most easily. Bless me if I know where it is—it’s between the Strand and the Embankment, but I never can remember which is Norfolk Street and which Arundel Street—and really I’m not sure she’s on either. But my brother is here. I’ll ask him, presently. And so you know Frank?”
“Ah, yes, but you know her better still,” said Christian, softly, nestling again into the corner of his chair nearest her. “I wanted you to tell me about her.”
“Oh, well—but what is there to tell?” she made answer, vaguely. “She is a good girl; she’s frightfully clever; she works very hard, and gives most of her money to her mamma; she’s successful, too, because she’s got a shop of her own, at last—and—and—that’s about all, isn’t it? You know, we’re not by way of seeing much of each other. There’s no quarrel, of course—not the least in the world—but I’m too frivolous to be in her class at all. I dare say it’s my fault—I ought to go and look her up. That’s what I will do, too, one of these days. But—you mustn’t misunderstand me—she’s an awfully good girl, that is, of course, if you like that sort of girl. And she’s pretty, too, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I think so,” affirmed Christian, almost with solemnity. “What time would she come to her office—in the morning, I mean?”
“Oh, don’t ask me!” laughed Cora. “At some ghastly hour, when they have breakfast, I believe, in cabmen’s shelters, and the streets haven’t been swept. I know it only by hearsay. I’ve never stopped up quite as late as that, you know. But you see something like it, driving round by Covent Garden on your way home from a late dance, to see the flowers. Have you ever done that?”
Christian shook his head. The idea attracted him, apparently. “At what hour is it?” he asked, with interest.
“Oh, four or five or something like that. It’s really the prettiest sight you ever saw. I used to go often, at this time of year, and take home a cabload of flowers. But I am getting too old now—and too serious-minded. The mother of a family—you know.”