"None; it must be a trick. See for yourself how her opening sentence starts in this story: there is a dignity about each word; the style is beautiful. Compare it with this." As Franks spoke he pointed to a paragraph of the Argonaut and a paragraph in poor Florence's essay. "I will rush off at once and see if I can find her," he said; "she must have sent this to pay me out. She did not want to write; I did not think she would be so disobliging."
"Offer her bigger terms to send us a paper to-morrow. We must overlook this very shabby trick she has played on us."
"Of course, the thing could not possibly be printed," said Franks. "I will go and see her."
He snatched up his hat, hailed a hansom, and drove straight to Prince's Mansions, and arrived there just as Florence was going out. She turned pale when she saw him. One glance at his face made her fear the worst. He had found her out. She leant up against the lintel of the door.
"What is it?" she said.
He glanced at her, and said, in a gruff voice: "Come up to my sister's room. I must speak to you."
They went upstairs together. As soon as they entered the room, Florence turned and faced Franks.
"You—of course you won't use it?"
"No; how can I use it? It is stuff; it is worse: it is nursery nonsense. Why did you send it to me? I did not think that you would play me such a trick."
"I told you I could only write fiction."