"If he saw you now, young lady, he'd have nothing to complain of," was the cheerful retort. "By the way, has he sent you a receipt for the money?"
"The best sign in the world," said L. Frankland, slapping her knee excitedly.
"Because it shows he's thinking about it. It's not routine to him. Georgia, if you have another chance given you, don't be afraid to take life in your own hands," the old maid said gently, "if you know that you love him."
"I have always known that, since the beginning," the young woman answered slowly, "but even if by a miracle he still--does, it is too late now. I've taken three of the best years of my life away from him and wasted them, thrown them away. You know how it is with us women. We have only twenty years or so when men really want us. More than half of mine are gone. It wouldn't be fair to go to him now. He should marry a young girl. He is a young man."
"You've wasted a lot of time already, and to make up for it you'll waste the rest. That's supreme logic. And yet," with heavy sarcasm, "man says we can't reason."
Georgia smiled at her friend's earnestness. "Oh, I'm in the rut, Frank. What's the use of talking any more about me? Come on to lunch. The girls," she nodded in the direction of the three employes in the outer office, "can hold the fort for an hour. There isn't much doing."
When their meal was finished they matched for the check, and L. Frankland was stuck. "Do one thing anyway," she said as she swept up her change, minus a quarter, "get your divorce. Then you can marry him straight off, if he asks you again--and you change your mind. You wouldn't like to go through all that rigmarole under his eyes, while he was standing by, waiting."
"No--I guess I won't bother. What's the use? I won't change my mind. Here I be and here I stay."
"You're a big fool," responded L. Frankland. "That's what I think."
Georgia walked home to the boarding house that evening, as was her custom when the weather was fair. It was quite a tramp, three miles, but then the fresh air and exercise made one feel so well. Besides, if one wants to be sure of staying slim--
Mrs. Plew, the landlady, was standing on the front stoop when she arrived, talking of carving knives to an old-fashioned scissor-grinding man, the sort who advertise with a bell and a chant.