"I am glad of it. I felt quite uneasy about you. You seemed so unwilling to do such a simple thing last night."
"It was not at all a simple thing to me. I am no good at anything except fiction."
Edith gave her foot an impatient stamp.
"Don't talk rubbish," she said; "you know perfectly well that your style must come to your aid in whatever you try to write. Then your fiction is not so remarkable for plot as for the careful development of character and your pithy remarks. Your powers of epigram would be abundantly brought to the fore in such a subject as Tom asked you to write about. But never mind, my dear, it is your pleasure to duplicate yourself—I do not think it is at all a worldly-wise habit; but, of course, that is your affair. Now come into the dining-saloon at once. I have good news for you. Tom has obtained tickets for us all three to see Irving in his great piece—'The Bells.'"
Florence certainly was cheered up by this news. She wanted to forget herself, to forget the miserable article which she vainly and without real knowledge of the ordinary duties of an editor hoped that Tom Franks would not even read. She ate her dinner with appetite, and went upstairs to her room in high good humour. Her means were sufficiently good to enable her to dress prettily, and she, Edith, and Tom found themselves just before the curtain rose in comfortable stalls at the theatre. Franks was in an excellent humour and in high spirits. He chatted merrily to both girls, and Florence had never looked better. Franks gave her a glance of downright admiration from time to time. Suddenly he bent forward and whispered to her: "What about my article?"
"I posted it to you some hours ago," she answered.
"Ah! that is good." A smile of contentment played round his lips. "I look forward most eagerly to reading it in the morning," he said: "it will be at my office by the first post, of course."
"I suppose so," said Florence, in a listless voice. Her gaiety and good humour suddenly deserted her.
The play proceeded; Edith was all critical attention, Franks also warmly approved, and Florence forgot herself in her absorbing interest. But between the acts the thought of her miserable schoolgirl essay came back to haunt her. Just before the curtain rose for the final act she touched Franks on his sleeve.
"What is it?" he said, looking at her.