The next morning a letter slid under his door, as he had expected. But it was not the hoped-for letter from Frankie; it was from Minnie, and it enclosed a ten dollar bill. She wrote as his grandmother might have written--spoke of the difficulties of a young man, a stranger in the city. “Repay me when you are able,” she said, and signed herself “Frankie’s sister.” He was furious. “I suppose she thought I was hinting at a loan when I told her I hadn’t a penny in my pockets,” he thought. “She has no more sensitiveness than a rhinoceros.” But in the end, he kept the money, knowing he could pay it back in nine days. And wrote at once to Minnie, thanking her. He made up his mind that he would never, never face her again. He would return the money by letter, and she shouldn’t hear of him again until he was a successful man and able to marry Frankie. His attitude at this future time would be amused, tolerant, very superior. He was horribly ashamed of himself for taking her money; it poisoned every mouthful he ate. He didn’t like her anyway; he was afraid of her. Neither was he grateful. Instinct was warning him of a snare. II There was another note from her the next day. “Dear Mr. Naylor: If possible, will you please come to tea this afternoon at four? I want particularly to see you. MARY DEFOE.” He wrote a curt reply, that he was too busy, then, thinking better of it, tore that up, and wrote another one, accepting. He was annoyed with her and her persistence, but, after all, she was Frankie’s sister, and the arbiter of Frankie’s fate. Punctually at four he presented himself at the front door of the dismal old house, and was admitted by a lean, elderly maid. She showed him into the same enormous sitting-room with shrouded furniture. “Miss Defoe will be down in a minute,” she said, severely. The place had a sort of chill magnificence which impressed him; he was fond of magnificence, anyway. Minnie increased in importance through being able to receive him in such an environment. He had been inclined to think her very ordinary, an opinion not to be held of the niece of such a drawing room. It was the stillest house imaginable. Not a sound of any sort. He sat uneasily on a mammoth sofa, with nothing to hear, nothing to see but pictures muffled in netting, nothing that he cared to think about. His watch had gone long ago, and the marble clock on the marble mantelpiece had stopped.... At last there was a faint rustle overhead, and then the sound of very slow steps on the stairs, and in a minute Minnie entered, leading by the arm a frail little old woman in black silk, a nervous, pampered shadow of former elegance.