Elfrida
retracted none of her admiration, and she added to it,
when she ceded her sympathy, the freedom of a fortified
city; but Janet hungered for more. Inwardly she cried
out for the something warm and human that was lacking to
Elfrida's feeling for her, and sometimes she asked herself
with grieved cynicism how her friend found it worth while
to pretend to care so cleverly. More than once she had
written to Elfrida with the deliberate purpose of soothing
herself by provoking some tenderness in reply, and
invariably the key she had struck had been that of homage,
more or less whimsically unwilling. "_Don't_ write such
delicious things to me, _ma mie_," would come the answer.
"You make me curl up with envy. What shall I do if malice
and all uncharitableness follow? I admire you so
horribly--there!" Janet told herself sorely that she was
sick of Elfrida's admiration--it was not the stuff
friendships were made of. And a keener pang supervened
when she noticed that whatever savored most of an admiration
on her own part had obviously the highest value for her
friend. The thought of Kendal only heightened her feeling
about Elfrida. She would be so much the stronger, she
thought, to resist any--any strain--if she could be
quite certain how much Elfrida cared--cared about her
personally.
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