The moment Edith saw Florence, she went up to her, seized her by the arm, and said, in an imperious voice:  “You must come with me to my room immediately.”

“But why?” asked Miss Aylmer, trying to release herself from the firm grip in which Edith Franks held her.

“Because I have something most important to tell you.”

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.”

“I cannot.”

“Too proud, eh?”

“Oh, you don’t know my position,” said poor Florence.

“Nonsense!  Go up to your room and have a rest.  I will come for you in a quarter of an hour.  I have ordered dinner for two already.  If you don’t eat it, it will be thrown away.”

“I am afraid it will have to be thrown away!  I ­I don’t feel well.”

“You are a goose; but if you are ill, you shall stay here and I will nurse you.”

“No; I think I’ll go upstairs.  I want to be alone.”

Florence staggered across the room as she spoke.  Edith Franks looked at her for a moment in a puzzled way.

“I shall expect you down to dinner,” she said.  “Dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour.  Mind, I shall expect you.”

Florence made no answer.  She slowly left the room, closing the door after her, and retired to her own apartment.

Edith Franks clasped both her hands to her head.

“Well, really,” she thought, “why should I put myself out about an ungrateful girl of that sort?  But there, she is deeply interesting:  one of those strange vagaries of genius.  She is a psychological study, beyond doubt.  I must see plenty of her.  I have a great mind to take up psychology as my special branch of the profession; it is so deeply, so appallingly interesting.  Poor girl, she has great genius!  When that story is published all the world will know.  I never saw Tom so excited about anything.  He said:  ‘There is stuff in this.’  He said it after he had read a page; he said it again when he had gone half-way through the manuscript; and he clapped his hands at the end and said:  ‘Bravo!’ I know what that means from Tom.  He is the most critical of men.  He distrusts everything until it has proved itself good, and yet he accepted the talent of that story without a demur.”

Miss Franks hurriedly moved about the room, changed her dress, smoothed her hair, washed her hands, looked at her little gun-metal watch, saw that the quarter of an hour had expired, and tripped downstairs to the dining-room.

“Will she be there, or will she not?” thought Edith Franks to herself.

She looked eagerly into the great room with its small tables covered with white cloths.  There were seats in the dining-room for one hundred and fifty people.

Edith Franks, however, looked over to a certain corner, and there, at one of the tables, quietly waiting for her, and also neatly dressed, sat Florence Aylmer.

“That is right,” said Miss Franks; “you are coming to your senses.”

“Yes,” answered Florence, “I am coming to my senses.”

There was a bright flush on each of her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant:  she looked almost handsome.

Edith gazed at her with admiration.

“So you are drinking in the delicious flattery:  you are preparing for the fame which awaits you,” said the medical student.

“I want to say one thing, Miss Franks,” remarked Florence, bending forward.

“What is that?”

“When you came up this morning to my room I did not wish to give you the manuscript; you took it from me almost by force.  You promised further that your brother’s seeing it would mean nothing.  You did not keep your word.  Your brother has seen it, and, from what you tell me, he approves of it.  From what you tell me further, he is going to show it in a certain quarter where its success will be more or less assured.  Of course, you and he may be both mistaken, and after all the story which you think so highly of may be worth nothing; that remains to be proved.”

“It is worth a great deal; the world will talk about it,” said Edith Franks.

“But I don’t want the world to talk of it,” said Florence.  “I didn’t wish to be pushed and hurried as I have been.  I did wrong to consult you, and yet I know you meant to be kind.  You have not been kind:  you have been the reverse; but you have meant to be kind, and I thank you for your intention.  Things must go their own way.  I have been hard pressed and I have yielded; only please do not ask me to talk about it.  When your brother receives news I shall be glad to know; but even then I want to hear the fate of the manuscript without comment from you.  That is what I ask.  If you will promise that, I will accept your dinner.  I am very proud, and it pains me to accept charity from anyone; but I will accept your dinner and be grateful to you:  only will you promise not to talk of the manuscript any more?”

“Certainly, my dear,” answered Edith Franks.  “Have a potato, won’t you?”

As Edith helped Florence to a floury potato, she exclaimed, under her breath:  “A little mad, poor girl:  a most interesting psychological study.”