n understand. And I say good-by to you,
for to her I cannot say it." And she turned to go.

Elfrida stumbled to her feet and hurried to the door.
"No!" she said, holding it fast. "No! You must not go
that way--I owe you too much, after all. We will--we will
make the best of it."

"Not on that ground," Janet answered gravely. "Neither
your friendship nor mine is purchasable, I hope."

"No, no! That was bad. On any ground you like. Only stay
a little--let us find ourselves again!"

Elfrida forced a smile into what she said, and Janet let
herself be drawn back to a chair.

It was nearly midnight when she found herself again in
her cab, driving through the empty lamplit Strand toward
Kensington. She had prevailed, and now she had to scrutinize
her methods. That necessity urged itself beyond her power
to turn away from it, and left her sick at heart. She
had prevailed--Elfrida, she believed, was hers again.
They had talked as candidly as might be of her father.
Elfrida had promised nothing, but she would, bring matters
to an end, Janet knew she would, in a day or two, when
she had had time to think how intolerable the situation
would be if she didn't. Janet remembered with wonder,
however, how little Elfrida seemed to realize that it
need make any difference between them compared with other
things, and what a trivial concession she thought it
beside the restoration of the privileges of her friendship.
The girl asked herself drearily how it would be possible
that she should ever forget the frank cynical surprise
with which Elfrida had received her entreaty, based on
the fact of her father's unrest and the wretchedness of
his false hopes--"You have your success; does it really
matter--so very much?"

CHAPTER XXXI.

"To-day, remember. You promised that I should see it
to-day," Elfrida reminded Kendal, dropping instantly into
the pose they had jointly decided on. "I know I'm late,
but you will not punish me by another postponement, will
you?"

Kendal looked sternly at his watch. "A good twenty minutes,
mademoiselle," he returned aggrievedly. "It would be only
justice--poetic justice--to say no. But I think you may,
if we get on to-day."

He was already at work, turning from the texture of the
rounded throat which occupied him before she came in, to
the more serious problem of the nuances of expression in
the face. It was a whim of his, based partly upon a
cautiousness, of which he was hardly aware, that