The heart of the trouble was there, that Frances had laughed at him. He could forget his anger against the Englishman, but he could not stomach being laughed at by a pretty girl. He had said horrible things about her, which Miss Eppendorfer had treasured up and now repeated, with greater malice because she dimly perceived that in his hatred for Frances there was more than a little lust. Against this attack Frances was defenceless. There was nothing in her nature, nothing in her training, to arm her. She stood up very straight, very proud, but tears were running down her cheeks. She waited until every one of the dreadful words had been said, and the speaker had flung out of the room, then she set to work to pack her little trunk with furious energy, cramming everything in, wishing only to be gone forever from that place. In hat and jacket, she went out into the hall and telephoned for a taxi. The driver came up after her trunk; he was just dragging it along the hall to put it into the lift, when Miss Eppendorfer came rushing out, in a kimono, her face raddled and tear-blistered, her wisps of hair in a wild tangle. “No! No!” she screamed. “Stop! Frances!” Her voice reverberated shockingly in the stone corridor. The lift boy and the chauffeur stared at her. Frances felt ready to faint. “Frances! Come back and let me explain!” “I can’t!” said Frances in a low voice. “Please don’t make such a noise!” “Come back! I can’t let you go like this! I didn’t mean what I said! You know I didn’t!” Already the doors of two apartments had stealthily opened. “Oh, please hush!” entreated Frances. “I can’t come back. I’ll write.” Suddenly Miss Eppendorfer turned to the two men. “Can’t _you_ beg this hard-hearted girl not to leave me like this, without a chance to explain?” she sobbed, in a torrent of tears. “Can’t you say a word for me? I’m alone in the world. I haven’t----” “Hush!” commanded Frances. “I’ll come! Please take the trunk in again.” When the front door was closed Miss Eppendorfer flung her arms about Frances. “I know you can’t forgive me,” she moaned. “But, oh Frances!... You don’t know what love is! You don’t know how I love that man! I know I’m a fool, but I can’t help it. Oh, Frances, just stand by me till it’s over.” “I don’t understand you. I thought you were going to marry him----” “No! No! Never!... Only stand by me till I get over it. It won’t last. He’ll go away soon. It’s madness; I know it. But you don’t _know_ how I suffer. I can’t help myself. Oh, Frances, you’re so cool and reasonable, you don’t _know_!” The flood of her confession was not to be dammed. Frances had to hear it all and to learn its lesson, as well as her unready mind permitted. And all the time she listened, in shame, pity and disgust, her adventuring spirit was eagerly and thirstily drinking this new knowledge, this experience, precious even if vicarious.