"Elfrida Bell—oh, she's out of town, Lady Halifax, and I am rather desolate without her—we see so much of her, you know. But she will be back soon—I dare say I will be able to bring her next Thursday. How delicious this coffee is! I shall have another cup, if it keeps me awake for a week. Oh, you got my note about the concert, dear lady?"
Kendal noticed the adroitness of her chatter with amusement. Before she had half finished Lady Halifax had taken an initial step toward moving off, and Janet's last words received only a nod and a smile for reply.
"You know, then?" said he, when that excellent woman was safely out of earshot.
"Yes, I know," Janet answered, twisting the hanging end of her long-haired boa about her wrist. "I feel as if I oughtn't to, but daddy told me. Daddy went, you know, to try to persuade her to give it up. I was so angry with him for doing it. He might have known Elfrida better. And it was such a—Such a criticism!"
"I wish you would tell me-what you really think," said
Kendal audaciously.
Janet sipped her coffee nervously. "I—I have no right to think," she returned. "I am not in Frida's confidence in the matter. But of course she is perfectly right, from, her point of view."
"Ah!" Kendal said, "her point of view."
Janet looked up at him with a sudden perception of the coldness of his tone. In spite of herself it gave her keen happiness, until the reflection came that probably he resented her qualification, and turned her heart to lead. She searched her soul for words.
"If she wants to do this thing, she has taken, of course, the only way to do it well. She does not need any justification—none at all. I wish she were back," Janet went on desperately, "but only for my own sake—I don't like being out of it with her; not for any reason connected with what she is doing."
There was an appreciable pause between them. "Let me put down your cup," suggested Kendal.