This struck him as
satisfactory, and he enjoyed finding completion for his
parallel wherever her words and gestures offered it. He
took her at the wish she implied, and eddied with her
around the pool which some counter-current of her nature
had made for the hour in its stream, pleasantly enough.
He made one attempt, as Elfrida unbuttoned her gloves at
their little table at the "Hyacinth," to get her to talk
about her work for the _Age_.
"Please, _please_ don't mention that," she said. "It is
too revolting. You don't know how it makes me suffer."
A moment later she returned to it of her own accord,
however. "It is absurd to try to exact pledges from
people," she said, "but I should really be happier
--_much_ happier--if you would promise me something."
"'By Heaven, I will promise _any_ thing!'" Kendal quoted,
laughing, from a poet much in vogue.
"Only this--I hope I am not selfish--" she hesitated;
"but I think--yes, I think I must be selfish here. It is
that you will never read the _Age_."
"I never do," leapt to his lips, but he stopped it in
time. "And why!" he asked instead.
"Ah, you know why! It is because you might recognize my
work in it--by accident you might--and that would be so
painful to me.
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