You would not have thought anything so bad of
me perhaps?" She looked up at him childishly. They were
strolling about the quiet spaces of the Temple Courts.
It was a pleasant afternoon in February, the new grass
was pushing up. They could be quite occupied with one
another--they had the place almost to themselves.
Elfrida's well-fitting shabby little jacket hung unbuttoned,
and she swung Cardiff's light walking-stick as they
sauntered. He, with his eyes on her delicately flushed
face and his hands unprofessorially in his pockets, was
counting the minutes that were left them.
"You wouldn't have, would you?" she insisted.
"I would think any womanly fault you like of you," he
laughed, "but one--the fear to confess it."
Elfrida shut her lips with a little proud smile. "Do
you know," she said confidingly, "when you say things
like that to me I like you very much--but _very much!_"
"But not enough," he answered her quickly, "never enough,
Frida?"
The girl's expression changed. "You are not to call me
'Frida,'" she said, frowning a little. "It has an
association that will always be painful to me. When
people--disappoint me, I try to forget them in every way
I can." She paused, and Cardiff saw that her eyes were
full of tears.
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