Florence did not reply. She had been cheered and comforted by her drive, and she found that Edith Franks, with all her kindness, had a most irritating effect upon her. There was nothing for it, however, but to comply, and the two went upstairs as far as the third story together. There they entered Edith's sitting-room. She pushed Florence down on the sofa, and, still keeping a hand on each of her shoulders, said emphatically: "Tom: read it."
"What do you mean?" was Florence's almost inane answer.
"How stupid you are!" Edith gave her a little shake. "When I am excited—I to whom it means practically nothing, why should not you be? Tom read it, and he means to show it to his chief. You are made, and I have made you. Kiss me; let me congratulate you. You will starve no longer; you will have plenty. What is more, you will have fame. You will be courted by the great; you have an honourable future in front of you. Look up! Lose that lack-lustre expression in your eyes. Oh, good gracious! the girl is ill." For Florence had turned ghastly white.
"This is a case for a doctor," said Edith Franks; "lie down—that is better." She pulled the cushions away from the sofa and pushed Florence into a recumbent position.
"I have some sal volatile here; you must drink it."
Edith rushed across the room, took the necessary bottle from her medical shelf, prepared a dose, and brought it to the half-fainting girl.
Florence sipped it slowly. The colour came back into her cheeks, and her eyes looked less dazed.
"Now you are more yourself. What was the matter with you?"
"But you—you have not given it; he—he has not shown it—"
"You really are most provoking," said Miss Franks. "I don't know why I take so much trouble for you—a stranger. I have given you what would have taken you months to secure for yourself: the most valuable introduction into the very best quarter for the disposal of your wares. Oh, you are a lucky girl. But there, you shall dine with me to-night."