an you have
already attained." Here a line had been carefully scratched
out. "What I have written I have written under compulsion.
I am sure you will understand that.

"Believe me,

"Yours sincerely,

"ELFRIDA BELL.

"P.S.--I had a dream once of what I fancied our friendship
might be. It is a long time ago, and the days between
have faded all the color and sweetness out of my
dream--still, I remember that it was beautiful. For the
sake of that vain imagining, and because it was beautiful,
I will send you, if you will allow me, a photograph of
a painting which I like, which represents art as I have
learned to kneel to it."

Kendal read this communication through with a look of
keen amusement until he came to the postscript. Then he
threw back his head and laughed outright. Janet's face
had changed; she tried to smile in concert, but the effort
was rather piteous. "Oh, Jack," she said, "please take
it seriously." But he laughed on, irrepressibly.

She tried to cover his lips. "_Don't_ shout so!" she
begged, as if there were illness in the house or a funeral
next door, and he saw something in her face which stopped
him.

"My darling, it can't hurt--it doesn't, does it?"

"I'd like to say no, but it does, a little. Not so much
as it would have done a while ago."

"Are you going to accept Miss Bell's souvenir of her
shattered ideal? That's the best thing in the letter
--that's really supreme!" and Kendal, still broadly
mirthful, stretched out his hand to take it again; but
Janet drew it back.

"No," she said, "of course not; that was silly of her.
But a good deal of the rest is true, I'm afraid, Jack."

"It's damnably impudent," he cried, with, sudden anger.
"I suppose she believes it herself, and that's the measure
of its truth. How dare she dogmatize to you about the
art of your work! _She_ to _you_!"

"Oh, it isn't that I care about. It doesn't matter to
me, how little she thinks of my aims and my methods. I'm
quite content to do my work with what artistic conception
I've got without analyzing its quality--I'm thankful
enough to have any. Besides, I'm not sure about the
finality of her opinion--"

"You needn't be!" Kendal interrupted, with scorn.

"But what hurts--like a knife--is that part about my
insincerity. I _haven't_ been honest with her--I haven't!
From the very beginning I've criticised her privately.
I've felt all sorts of reserves and qualifications about
her, and concealed them--for