Now, what is it, my dear child?"
Mr. Parke had already concluded that it was money, and
had fixed the amount he would lend. It was just half of
what Mademoiselle Knike, of Paolo Rossi's, had succeeded
in extracting from him last week. He liked having a
reputation for amiability among the ateliers, but he must
not let it cost too much.
Elfrida felt none of that benumbing shame which sometimes
seizes those who would try literature confessing to those
who have succeeded in it, and the occasion was too
important for the decorative diffidence that might have
occurred to her if it had been trivial. She had herself
well gathered together, and she would have been concise
and direct even if there had been more than fifteen
minutes.
"One afternoon last September, at Nadie Palicsky's--there
is no chance that you will remember, but I assure you it
is so--you told me that I might, if I tried--write,
monsieur."
The concentration of her purpose in her voice made itself
felt where Frank Parke kept his acuter perceptions, and
put them at her service.
"I remember perfectly," he said.
"_Je m'en felicite_. It is more than I expected. Well,
circumstances have made it so that I must either write
or scrub.
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