“You’re making a mistake,” said the authoress. “But tell me about it.” Frances hesitated a moment. “You see,” she began. “I’m afraid that perhaps I made a mistake--advised him wrongly. You see, he was depending entirely on his brother--living with him. He’d never really thought how--that it wasn’t quite--very self-respecting. And I asked him to stop, to try to stand on his own feet. And I’m not sure if he’s able to do that. He has _nothing_ now, except a little more than a hundred pounds a year or so.” “Except!” said Miss Eppendorfer. “Oh, of course, it helps. But the trouble is, he’s perfectly inexperienced. He can’t seem to find a job. We’ve--he has answered advertisements and registered at agencies, and nothing’s any good. I’m so afraid of his getting completely discouraged and going back to his brother again. It’s so wretched for him. There’s no chance of our being married for years----” “Why?” “We couldn’t both live on a hundred pounds a year--about five hundred dollars!” “Why should you try? You’re earning something, and under no expense. Why don’t you get married anyway, and go on as you are?” Frankie was amazed. “I never thought of such a thing. It ... we couldn’t have any home....” “Does that matter? You’d have each other. Oh, if I were you, if I were you ...! I shouldn’t think of anything but--just having each other, just your love. I’d never think of a home or money. Only of the man I loved.” Her voice broke, and her hand on Frankie’s arm trembled. “My dear, I’m speaking against my own interests, for of course I don’t want to lose you.... But you don’t understand, you don’t appreciate love. It isn’t a _home_ that you want. My dear! My dear! And would you let him wait and eat out his heart, for years, for your vanity, until he could give you all the silly little things you think you want? You don’t know men, you don’t know life; you don’t know how very short a time we have for love. You don’t know him. You don’t know _anything_. If you did, you wouldn’t let this go! You’d be happy while you could, you’d make him happy.” Frances didn’t stir; there was absolute silence for a long time. Then she got up. “I’ll make the coffee now,” she said, and, in spite of herself, couldn’t keep a trace of gentleness out of her tone, something that approached tenderness. She hated sentimentality, but--no use denying that she was deeply moved by the poor woman’s vehemence, by the thought she had conveyed. Of course, the advice of Miss Eppendorfer was not to be taken too seriously, and yet, couldn’t she be right on _some_ points? She attended to the coffee with earnestness, thinking all the while. What if she had been cold and selfish, and made her own dear boy unhappy? A coward?... And a faint realisation of the truth not fully seen or known till much later came upon her, of the pitiful folly of waiting, of patience and of prudence in this poor life so short and so hazardous.