"It seems to me," she said slowly, "that there is something
between us which is indestructible, Frida. We didn't
make it, and we can't unmake it. For my part, I think it
is worth our preserving, but I don't believe we could
lose it if we tried. You may put me away from you for
any reason that seems good to you, as far as you like,
but so long as we both live there will be that something,
recognized or unrecognized. All we can do arbitrarily is
to make it a joy or a pain of it. Haven't you felt that?"
The other girl looked at her uncertainly. "I have felt
it sometimes," she said, "but now it seems to me that I
can never be sure that there is not some qualification
in it--some hidden flaw."
"Don't you think it's worth making the best of? Can't we
make up our minds to have a little charity for the flaws?"
Elfrida shook her head. "I don't think I'm capable of a
friendship that demands charity," she said.
"And yet, whether we close each other's lips or not, we
will always have things to say, the one to the other, in
this world. Is it to be dumbness between us?"
There was a moment's silence in the room--a crucial
moment, it seemed to both of them. Elfrida sat against
the table with her elbows among its litter of paged
manuscript, her face hidden in her hands.
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