“One can never tell,” she said. “Still, Mr. Naylor, I certainly shouldn’t give up hope if I were you. I’d only think of the marriage as postponed. Until you’re doing--better.” “That’s all very well. But to be on the point of marrying a girl like Frankie, and then to lose her, for an indefinite length of time--it’s not easy.” “But she’s worth waiting for!” cried Minnie, like a good sister. “Yes,” he answered, bitterly, “but I’m not. Look at me! I haven’t a penny in my pocket, as I stand here. Not much better than a beggar.” It was his old black depression, which he had grown accustomed to having assuaged by Frances. And now there was no Frances, and no encouraging words. They had been strolling through moribund streets for some time, and were now back at the corner where they had met. Minnie held out her hand, in a shabby glove that Frankie _could_ not have worn. “Good night!” she said, “and please give me your address. I want to think things over, seriously. You’ll hear from me very soon.... And in the meantime, won’t you write to Frankie? Tell her all I’ve said. Perhaps she’ll listen to _you_.” He went back to his room completely crushed. He was a fool, Frankie was a misguided and romantic girl; there was no light in the world. They would never, never be able to marry. He sat down and wrote as Minnie had suggested. Frankie, reading the letter, had no way of knowing how he felt, writing it. She couldn’t see him, or read his heart, and the very deepest love gives no key to the beloved’s mystery. It was a genuine act of self-sacrifice on his part. He felt it his duty to point out all the drawbacks and penalties of such a marriage, as seen through the eyes of Minnie and the world; all the old obstacles she had so gallantly disdained, and a host of new ones, born of his own despondency and humiliation, and of his lack of food. She could read in it only reluctance and coldness. It hurt her beyond measure. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN I He woke up the next morning dizzy and sick, and quite obsessed by the question of food. Marriage and love were relatively unimportant. Not that he was hungry, at all, only dreadfully empty and weak, and frightened about his condition. He wondered if it were possible for a person of his class really to starve to death, whether his pride, and his love for Frankie were strong enough, if he could hold out, and not turn to Horace. “What in God’s name can I do?” he asked himself. “Ten days before I have a penny! Ten days!” His mind dwelt persistently on one of those cheap, white-tiled restaurants, crowded with people, places formerly despised. If only there were a quarter in some forgotten pocket! He had nothing to read, not even a magazine. No one to speak to. Not an earthly thing to do. He lay down on his bed and dozed away hours in a half-stupor. He began to imagine that he was already starving.