to care so cleverly. More than once she had
written to Elfrida with the deliberate purpose of soothing
herself by provoking some tenderness in reply, and
invariably the key she had struck had been that of homage,
more or less whimsically unwilling. "_Don't_ write such
delicious things to me, _ma mie_," would come the answer.
"You make me curl up with envy. What shall I do if malice
and all uncharitableness follow? I admire you so
horribly--there!" Janet told herself sorely that she was
sick of Elfrida's admiration--it was not the stuff
friendships were made of. And a keener pang supervened
when she noticed that whatever savored most of an admiration
on her own part had obviously the highest value for her
friend. The thought of Kendal only heightened her feeling
about Elfrida. She would be so much the stronger, she
thought, to resist any--any strain--if she could be
quite certain how much Elfrida cared--cared about her
personally. Besides, the indictment that she, Janet, had
against her seemed to make the girl's affection absolutely
indispensable. And now Elfrida had apparently left London
without a word. She had dined in Kensington Square the
night before, and this was eleven o'clock in the morning.
It looked very much as if she had deliberately intended
to leave them in the dark as to her movements. People
didn't go out of town indefinitely "for the present," on
an hour's notice. The thought brought sudden tears to
Janet's eyes, which she winked back angrily. "I am getting
to be a perfect old maid!" she reflected. "Why shouldn't
Frida go to Kamschatka, if she wants to, without giving
us notice? It's only her eccentric way of doing things."
And she frowned upon, her sudden resolution to rush off
to Fleet Street in a cab and inquire of Mrs. Jordan. It
would be espionage. She would wait, quit calmly and
indefinitely, till Frida chose to write, and then she
would treat the escapade, whatever it was, with the
perfect understanding of good-fellowship. Or perhaps not
indefinitely--for two or three days--it was just possible
that Frida might have had bad news and started suddenly
for America by the early tram to Liverpool, in which case
she might easily not have had time to write. But in that
case would not Mrs. Jordan have written "Gone to America"?
Her heart stood still with another thought--could she
have gone with Kendal? Granting that she had made up her
mind to marry him, it would be just Elfrida's strange,
sensat