There was no answer for an instant, or perhaps
three. Elfrida was looking down. Presently she raised
her eyes, and they were larger than ever, and wet.
"No," she said, a little tensely. "I have tried"
--"trr-hied," she pronounced it--"but--but I cannot."
Lawrence Cardiff looked at his teaspoon in a considering
way, and Janet reflected, not without indignation, that
this was the manner in which people who cared for them
might be expected to speak of the dead. But Elfrida cut
short the reflection by turning to her brightly. "When
Mr. Cardiff came in," she said, "you were telling me why
a Daudet could not write about the English. It was
something about Sapho--"
Mr. Cardiff looked up curiously, and Janet, glancing in
her father's direction, reddened. Did this strange young
woman not realize that it was impossible to discuss beings
like "Sapho" with one's father in the room? Apparently
not, for she went on: "It seems to me it is the exception
in that class, as in all classes, that rewards interest--"
That rewards interest? What might she not say next!
"Yes," interrupted Janet desperately, "but then my father
came in and changed the subject of our conversation.
Where are you living, Miss Bell?"
"Near Fleet Street," said Elfrida, rising.
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