She could not resist the
pardoning role; she played it intermittently, with a
pretty impulsiveness that would have amused Miss Cardiff
more if it had irritated her less. For the certainty that
Elfrida would be her former self for three days together
Janet would have dispensed gladly with the little Bohemian
dinner in Essex Court in honor of her book, or the violets
that sometimes dropped out of Elfrida's notes, or even
the sudden but premeditated occasional offer of Elfrida's
lips.
Meanwhile the Halifaxes were urging their western trip
upon her, Lady Halifax declaring roundly that she was
looking wretchedly, Miss Halifax suggesting playfully
the possibility of an American heroine for, her next
novel. Janet, repelling both publicly, admitted both
privately. She felt worn out physically, and when she
thought of producing another book her brain responded
with a helpless negative. She had been turning lately
with dogged conviction to her work as the only solace
life was likely to offer her, and anything that hinted
at loss of power filled her with blank dismay. She was
desperately weary and she wanted to forget, desiring,
besides, some sort of stimulus as a flagging swimmer
desires a rope.
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