Elfrida put a very few of
them into the wooden box, just as she would have embalmed,
if she could, a very few of the half-hours they had spent
together.
CHAPTER XXI.
John Kendal had turned the key upon his dusty work-room
in Bryanston Street among the first of those who, according
to the papers, depopulated London in July. He had an old
engagement to keep, which took him, with Carew of the
_Dial_ and Limley of the Civil Service, to explore and
fish in the Norwegian fjords. The project matured suddenly,
and he left town without seeing anybody--a necessity
which disturbed him a number of times on the voyage. He
wrote a hasty line to Janet, returning a borrowed book,
and sent a trivial message to Elfrida, whom he knew to
be spending a few days in Kensington Square at the time.
Janet delivered it with an intensity of quiet pleasure
which she showed extraordinary skill in concealing. "May
I ask you to say to Miss Bell--" seemed to her to be
eloquent of many things. She looked at Elfrida with
inquiry, in spite of herself, when she gave the message,
but Elfrida received it with a nod and a smile of perfect
indifference. "It is because she does not care--does not
care _an iota_," Janet told herself; and all that day it
seemed to her that Elfrida's personality was inexhaustibly
delightful.
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