The cup Elfrida held shook in its saucer, and she put it down to silence it. Janet did not know, did not suspect, then. Well, she should; her indifference was too maddening.
"Under the circumstances it was not a liberty at all.
Mr. Cardiff wanted me to come back to marry him."
There! It was done, and as brutally as possible. Her vanity was avenged—she could have her triumphs too. And instant with its gratification came the cold recoil of herself upon herself, a sense of shame, a longing to undo.
Janet took the announcement with the very slightest lifting of her eyebrows. She bent her head and stirred her teacup meditatively, then looked up gravely at Elfrida.
"Really?" she said. "And may I ask—whether you have come back for that?"
"I—I hardly know," Elfrida faltered. "You know what I think about marriage—there is so much to consider."
"Doubtless," Janet returned. Her head was throbbing with the question why this girl would not go—go—go! How had she the hardihood to stay another instant! At any moment her father might come in, and then how could she support the situation? But all she added was, "I am afraid it is a matter which we cannot very well discuss." Then a bold thought came to her, and without weighing it she put it into words. The answer might put everything definitely—so definitely—at an end.
"Mr. Kendal went to remonstrate with you, too, didn't he? It must have been very troublesome and embarrassing—"
Janet stopped. Elfrida had turned paler, and her eyes greatened with excitement. "No," she said, "I did not see Mr. Kendal. What do you mean? Tell me!"
"Perhaps I have no right. But he told me that he had seen you, at Cheynemouth."