“Oh, I _would_, my dear! I’m no good till I’ve had my coffee, and I can’t make it decently myself.” She sat down on the bed, and though Frances waited impatiently for a chance to get up, she showed no signs of moving. Nothing could have induced Frankie to dress in her presence. A faint annoyance crept over her. She got out of bed on the other side, gathered up her clothes and went into the bathroom, with a brusque excuse. She came out, stiffer and straighter than ever, and went into the tiny kitchen to make the coffee. It was the filthiest place; roaches running over everything, grease, dust, crumbs. “That girl was a very poor servant,” she said severely. Miss Eppendorfer was sitting on a corner of the table, swinging her slippered feet. “I spoil them,” she said. “I’m too good to them. And then I don’t _keep after_ them. You have to, if you want anything done.... But with my writing, of course I can’t keep my mind on that sort of thing very well.” She praised the coffee extravagantly, and, as she drank it, explained to Frankie that she was very, very nervous, and that a scene such as she had had with that dreadful girl upset her beyond measure. Frances noticed her trembling hands, her quick breath, and accepted this nervousness, and, in her competent way, went about making her comfortable. They had a rather pleasant day together. The hall-boy was sent to fetch “Jennie” who had often before come to fill in gaps, and while she was creaking and wheezing, scrubbing and mopping her faithful way round the flat, the authoress lay on a sofa and talked to Frankie. She told her about her work, which so far consisted of three short stories and two very successful novels. “But I’m really only beginning,” she said. (Frances thought privately that she was rather old for any sort of beginning.) Her latest book was called “The Lonely Woman.” She gave a copy to Frances and begged for a candid opinion after she had read it. “But I’m not a judge,” Frances told her earnestly, “I don’t know anything about literature. Only that I love books and reading.” “My dear,” said Miss Eppendorfer, “I saw at once how sensible and level-headed you were. I _want_ your opinion!” Noon came. Miss Eppendorfer sighed as the clock struck. “I do _not_ feel equal to going out,” she said, “I’d rather do without lunch. Of course, there’s plenty in the house, but Jennie can’t cook a thing.” Frances was quite willing to get a lunch ready, and to bring it on a tray to the nervous authoress. Also tea and supper. Otherwise there was nothing to do but sit and talk. III