Meade L. T. - The Time of Roses стр 26.

"Oh, I'll prime you up with facts, if that is all," said Edith; "you must do it: it would be most ungenerous and unkind to refuse Tom after the way he has brought you to the front."

"But I must refuse," said Florence. She rose from the sofa; her face looked pale with desperation.

"That horrid secret, whatever it is, is beginning to awake once more," thought the astute Edith to herself. She looked at Florence with what Tom called her scientific face.

"Sit down," she said, "sit down. Why should you not do it?"

"Because I am no good at all with that class of paper."

"But your style will be invaluable, and you need not say much," said Franks. "We want just the same simple terse, purely Saxon style. We want one or two of your ideas. You need not make it three thousand words long: it does not really matter. You will be well paid. I have the editor's permission to offer you twelve guineas. Surely you will not refuse such a valuable cheque."

Florence looked with almost vacant eyes at the cheque which was lying on the table near her. The whole thing seemed like black magic.

"I suppose I must try," she said; "I have never written any prose worth reading in my life. You will be dreadfully disappointed; I know you will."

"I am quite certain we shall not be disappointed; anyhow, I am going to risk it. You must not go back on your promise. Write your paper to-morrow morning when you are fresh; then post it to me in the evening. Good-bye. I am awfully obliged to you."

The young journalist took his departure before Florence had time to realise what she had done. She heard his steps descending the stairs, and then turned with lack-leisure eyes to Edith.

"What have I done?" she cried.

"Done?" said Edith, in a tone of some impatience. "Why, your duty, of course. You could not refuse Tom after all his kindness to you. Where would you be but for him but for me? Do you suppose that, just because you are clever, you would have reached the position you have done if it had not been for my brother? You must do your very best for him."

"Oh, don't scold me, please, Edith," said poor Florence.

"I don't mean to; but really your queer ways of accepting Tom's favours exasperate me now and then."

"Perhaps I had better go to my own room," said Florence. "I am in your way, am I not?"

"When you talk nonsense you are. When you are sensible I delight to have you here. Lie down on the sofa once more, and go on reading this last novel of George Eliot's: it will put some grit into you."

Edith returned once more to her task, lit a strong lamp which she had got for this special purpose, put on her magnifying-glasses, adjusted her microscope, and set to work.

Florence knew that she was lost to all externals for the next hour or so. She herself took up her book and tried to read. Half an hour before this book had interested her, now she found it dry as sawdust; she could not follow the argument nor interest herself in the tale. She let it drop on her lap, and stared straight before her. How was she

to do that which she said she would do? Her crutch was no longer available. The ghost who really supplied all her brilliant words and felicitous turns of speech and quaint ideas was not to be secured on any terms whatsoever. What could she do?

She felt restless and uncomfortable.

"I did wrong ever to consent to it, but now that I have begun I must go on taking in the golden sovereigns," she said to herself, and she took up the cheque for eighteen guineas, looked at it eagerly, and put it into her purse. Starvation was indeed now far removed. Florence could help her mother and support herself; but, nevertheless, although she was now well fed and well clothed and comfortably housed, she at that moment had the strongest regret of all her life for the old hungry days when she had been an honest, good girl, repentant of the folly of her youth, and able with a clear conscience to look all men in the face.

"But as I have begun I must go on," she said to herself. "To court discovery now would be madness. I cannot, I will not court it. Come what may, I must write that article. How am I to do it, and in twenty-four hours? Oh, if I could only telegraph to Bertha!"

CHAPTER XXIX. ALMOST BETRAYED

The paper was at last produced, and was not so good as the ordinary schoolgirl's essay. It was feeble, without metaphor, without point, without illustration. She did not dare to read it over twice.

"It must go," she said to herself; "I can make up for it by a specially brilliant story of Bertha's for the next number. What will Mr. Franks say? I only trust he won't find me out."

She directed her miserable manuscript to Thomas Franks, Esq., at the office of the Argonaut , and as she left the museum late in the afternoon of that day dropped the packet into the pillar-box. She then went home.

Edith Franks was waiting for her, and Edith happened to be in a specially good humour.

"Have you done the article?" she said.

"Yes," replied Florence, in a low voice.

"I am glad of it. I felt quite uneasy about you. You seemed so unwilling to do such a simple thing last night."