I
He woke up the next morning dizzy and sick, and quite obsessed by the
question of food. Marriage and love were relatively unimportant. Not
that he was hungry, at all, only dreadfully empty and weak, and
frightened about his condition. He wondered if it were possible for a
person of his class really to starve to death, whether his pride, and
his love for Frankie were strong enough, if he could hold out, and not
turn to Horace.
“What in God’s name can I do?” he asked himself. “Ten days before I have
a penny! Ten days!”
His mind dwelt persistently on one of those cheap, white-tiled
restaurants, crowded with people, places formerly despised. If only
there were a quarter in some forgotten pocket!
He had nothing to read, not even a magazine. No one to speak to. Not an
earthly thing to do. He lay down on his bed and dozed away hours in a
half-stupor. He began to imagine that he was already starving.
The next morning a letter slid under his door, as he had expected. But
it was not the hoped-for letter from Frankie; it was from Minnie, and it
enclosed a ten dollar bill. She wrote as his grandmother might have
written--spoke of the difficulties of a young man, a stranger in the
city. “Repay me when you are able,” she said, and signed herself
“Frankie’s sister.”
He was furious.
“I suppose she thought I was hinting at a loan when I told her I hadn’t
a penny in my pockets,” he thought. “She has no more sensitiveness than
a rhinoceros.”
But in the end, he kept the money, knowing he could pay it back in nine
days. And wrote at once to Minnie, thanking her. He made up his mind
that he would never, never face her again. He would return the money by
letter, and she shouldn’t hear of him again until he was a successful
man and able to marry Frankie. His attitude at this future time would be
amused, tolerant, very superior. He was horribly ashamed of himself for
taking her money; it poisoned every mouthful he ate. He didn’t like her
anyway; he was afraid of her. Neither was he grateful. Instinct was
warning him of a snare.