To be remarkable--to the
trade--it should have dealt with epic passion, in three
volumes, at thirty."
To him the book had a charm quite apart from its literary
value, in the revelation it made of its author. It was
the first piece of work Janet had done from a seriously
artistic point of view, into which she had thrown herself
without fence or guard, and it was to him as if she had
stepped from behind a mask. He wrote to her about it
with the confidence of the new relation it established
between them; he looked forward with warm pleasure to
the closer intimacy which it would bring. To Janet, living
in this new sweetness of their better understanding, only
one thing was lacking--Elfrida made no sign. If Janet
could have known, it was impossible. In her review Elfrida
had done all she could. She had forced herself to write
it before she touched a line of her own work, and now,
persistently remote in her attic, she strove every night
over the pile of notes which represented the ambition
that sent its roots daily deeper into the fibre of her
being. Twice she made up her mind to go to Kensington
Square, and found she could not--the last time being the
day the _Decade_ said that a new and larger edition of
"John Camberwell" was in preparation.
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