Janet's relation with Elfrida was a growing pleasure to
him. He found himself doing little things to enhance it,
and fancying himself in some way connected with its
initiation.
"But I'm almost certain she would let you do it," his
daughter urged.
"_In loco parentis_," Cardiff smiled, and immediately
found that the words left an unpleasant taste in his
mouth. "But I'm not at all sure that she could do anything
they would take."
"My dear daddy!" cried Janet resentfully. "Wait till she
tries! You said yourself that some of those scraps she
sent us in Scotland were delicious."
"So they were. She has a curious, prismatic kind of
mind--"
"Soul, daddy."
"Soul, if you like. It reflects quite wonderfully, the
angles at which it finds itself with the world are so
unusual. But I doubt her power, you know, of construction
or cohesion, or anything of that kind."
"I don't," Janet returned confidently. "But talk to her
about it, daddy; get her to show you what she's done--I
never see a line till it's in print. And--I don't know
anything about it, you know. Above all things, don't
let her guess that I suggested it."
"I'll see what can be done," Mr. Cardiff returned, "though
I profess myself faithless.
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