playing for stakes, unusual, exciting, and of some personal
importance. She did not pause to regard her attitude from
any other point of view; she succumbed at once, not
without enjoyment, to the necessity for diplomacy. Under
its rush of suggestions her conscience was only vaguely
restive. To-morrow it would assert itself; unconsciously
she put off paying attention to it until then. Elfrida
must come back to her. For the moment the need was to
choose her plea.

"It seems to me," she said slowly, "that there is something
between us which is indestructible, Frida. We didn't
make it, and we can't unmake it. For my part, I think it
is worth our preserving, but I don't believe we could
lose it if we tried. You may put me away from you for
any reason that seems good to you, as far as you like,
but so long as we both live there will be that something,
recognized or unrecognized. All we can do arbitrarily is
to make it a joy or a pain of it. Haven't you felt that?"

The other girl looked at her uncertainly. "I have felt
it sometimes," she said, "but now it seems to me that I
can never be sure that there is not some qualification
in it--some hidden flaw."

"Don't you think it's worth making the best of? Can't we
make up our minds to have a little charity for the flaws?"

Elfrida shook her head. "I don't think I'm capable of a
friendship that demands charity," she said.

"And yet, whether we close each other's lips or not, we
will always have things to say, the one to the other, in
this world. Is it to be dumbness between us?"

There was a moment's silence in the room--a crucial
moment, it seemed to both of them. Elfrida sat against
the table with her elbows among its litter of paged
manuscript, her face hidden in her hands. Janet rose and
took a step or two toward her. Then she paused, and looked
at the little bronze image on the table instead. Elfrida
was suddenly shaken by deep, indrawn, silent sobs.

"It is finished, then," Janet said softly; "we are to
separate for always, Buddha, she and I. She will not know
any more of me nor I of her--it will be, so far as we
can make it, like the grave. You must belong to a strange
world, Buddha, always to smile!" She spoke evenly quietly,
with, restraint, and still she did not look at the
convulsively silent figure in the chair. "But I am glad
you will always keep that face for her, Buddha. I hope
the world will, too, our world that is sometimes more
bitter than you ca