appened 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."

"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.