She took Bertha's letter, put it on the cold hearth, set fire to it, and saw it consumed to ashes. Then she undressed and went to bed. Whatever her dreams were she rose in good time in the morning. She had a considerable amount to do. She was to see Franks at nine o'clock. She was to see Trevor later on.
She had to copy a whole very brilliant story of Bertha's. She was a slow writer and there was nothing of talent in her handwriting.
"I am a very stupid girl when all is said and done," she said to herself; "I am not even in the ordinary sense of the word well-educated. I have been years studying, but somehow I think I must have a frivolous sort of brain. Perhaps I have taken after the little Mummy. The little Mummy never was clever. She is a dear little mother when all is said and done, and very comforting when one is in trouble, and if I saw her now I might break down and fling my arms round her neck and confess to her. With all her silliness she would comfort me and she would never reproach me; but I must not tell. There is no softness in my future. Thank goodness, at least I am young; I may have a great career; I will be satisfied to be famous. It will be terribly, terribly, difficult to be famous through the whim of another woman; but I suppose Bertha will not forsake me."
She dressed, prepared her breakfast as usual, and had just washed up afterwards and put her little sitting-room in order when Franks's knock was heard at her door. He entered in that brisk, business-like, utterly cool way which always characterised him. He looked immaculate and fresh. He was always extremely particular about his appearance. His collars were invariably as white as the driven snow, and his clothes well cut. He dressed himself between the style of a country gentleman and a man of business. He never wore frock-coats, for instance. He was a small man, but well made. He held himself upright as a soldier. His black hair was brushed back from his lofty white brow. He had straight black eye-brows and a neat little black moustache and straight features. His skin was of an olive tint. Those well-cut, classical features gave to his face a certain cold sameness of outline. It was almost impossible to surprise him or to cause emotion to visit his countenance. He looked now as composed as though he had merely come to give Florence a fresh order for work.
"Ah," he said, "there you are. One minute past nine; sorry I am late; accept my apologies."
Florence pushed forward a chair. She could scarcely bring herself to speak. Even her lips were white. Franks did not sit; he came a step nearer.
"I have exactly ten minutes," he said; "this is a purely business arrangement. Is it to be 'yes' or 'no?'"
"If you will faithfully assure me that—" began Florence, and then she stopped and wetted her lips. Her mouth was so dry she could scarcely proceed.
Franks gave an impatient start. He took out his watch and glanced at it.
"Yes," he said, "I am awfully sorry; if it is no, it won't be necessary to keep me now."