He had an instant of intense resentment
against his daughter. What brutality had she been guilty
of toward Elfrida in that moment of unreasonable jealousy
that surged up between them? He would fiercely like to
know. But Elfrida was smiling again, looking up at him
in wilful disregard of her wet eyes.
"Say 'Elfrida' please--all of it."
They had reached the Inner Temple Hall. "Let us go in
there and sit down," he suggested. "You must be tired--dear
child."
She hesitated and submitted. "Yes, I am," she said.
Presently they were sitting on one of the long dark
polished wooden benches in the quiet and the rich light
the ages have left in this place, keeping a mutual moment
of silence. "How splendid it is!" Elfrida said restlessly,
looking at the great carved wooden screen they had come
through.
"The man who did that had a joy in his life, hadn't he?
To-day is very cheap and common, don't you think?"
He had hardly words to answer her vague question, so
absorbed was he in the beauty and the grace and the
interest with which she had suddenly invested the
high-backed corner she sat in. He felt no desire to
analyze her charm. He did not ask himself whether it was
the poetry of her eyes and lips, or her sincerity about
herself, or the joy in art that was the key to her soul,
or all of these, or something that was none of them.
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