Frances was a prey to remorse that night. She took into consideration Lionel’s upbringing, Horace’s indulgence to him, his own generous and careless nature, and she felt that she had hurt him cruelly and unjustly. The thought of his flouted ring brought her almost to tears. He was very proud, very sensitive in his own queer way. She was even a little afraid that he wouldn’t come back, or that, if he did, he would be changed. It was a great relief to hear him through the telephone, in quite his usual voice, at his usual hour of five o’clock. “What about a walk this evening?” he suggested. “I’ll be waiting at the door for you at eight.” He was remarkably solemn and correct; he took Frankie’s arm without a word and set off toward Madison Avenue. It was a warm, misty evening in late September, enervating weather. Frankie was tired and nervous and filled with apprehension. Was he going to reproach her? He pulled out of his pocket a little bundle of papers fastened by a rubber band, and gave it to her. “My bank book,” he said, “and all the other stuff. You’d better take charge of it, old girl.... I’ll tell you just how I stand, and you can tell me what I’d better do.” “Oh, Lionel!” she cried, “You _dear_ old thing! And I was so afraid you’d be hurt or offended!” “I think you’re right--all that you said,” he answered seriously. “I want to make a new start--begin over again. Only it’s rather hopeless. I’ve a hundred and five pounds a year income from my mother, and that’s all. No prospects. Not a relative who could leave me a son. And eighty dollars in the bank. Rather dismal, isn’t it?” “Not a bit! Fancy having an income, and calling the outlook dismal! And you’re young, you’ve got everything before you. You’re sure to find a good job before very long----” “Yes, but my dear girl, that eighty dollars is all I’ve got to live on for three months and a half, until my next remittance comes. Unless I stop on in Horace’s office----” “No, no! You mustn’t stay there! Please, please break off all that, won’t you?” “Whatever you say, old girl. But where am I to live if I leave Horace’s?” “I’ll find you a place,” she said, rashly. “I’ll have to explain to him, though.... What shall I say?” He really did not understand quite what was expected of him, or what he was doing. It was somehow a fine thing to renounce his comfort and security, and declare himself independent, and as long as Frances wished it, he was willing to do it. But it was a bit--theatrical. After all these years to refuse old Horace’s money. “I’ll pop in and take lunch with him to-morrow,” he said. “And tell him that you’re going to stand on your own feet,” urged Frances. “He’ll understand. And think all the more of you. Tell him--be sure--that you appreciate all he’s done for you, but that now you’re going to take care of yourself.” He agreed. “I’ll come and tell you about it as soon as it’s over,” he said. “You can expect me about three.”