“You enjoyed being out of town, of course,” Janet said.  “It is always pleasant to leave London for a while, I think.”

There was a cool masterfulness in the tone of this that arrested Elfrida’s feeling of half-penitence, and armed her instantly.  Whatever desire she had felt to assert and indulge her individuality at any expense, in her own attitude there had been the consciousness of what they owed one another.  She had defied it, perhaps, but it had been there.  In this it was ignored; Janet had gone a step further—­her tone expressed the blankest indifference.  Elfrida drew herself up.

“Thanks, it was delightful.  An escape from London always is, as you say.  Unfortunately, one is obliged to come back.”

Janet laughed lightly.  “Oh, I don’t know that I go so far as that.  I rather like coming back too.  And you have missed one or two things, you know, by being away.”

“The Lord Mayor’s Show?” asked Elfrida, angry that she could not restrain the curl of her lip.

“Oh dear, no!  That comes off in November—­don’t you remember?  Things at the theatres chiefly.  Oh, Jessie, Jessie!” she went on, shaking her head at the maid who had come in with the tray, “you’re a quarter of an hour late with tea!  Make it for us now, where you are, and remember that Miss Bell doesn’t like cream.”

The maid blushed and smiled under the easy reproof, and did as she was told.  Janet chatted on pleasantly about the one or two first nights she had seen, and Elfrida felt for a moment that the situation was hopelessly changed.  She had an intense, unreasonable indignation.  The maid had scarcely left the room when her blind search for means of retaliation succeeded.

“But one is not necessarily wholly Without diversions in the provinces.  I had, for instance, the pleasure of a visit from Mr. Cardiff.”

“Oh yes, I heard of that,” Janet returned, smiling.  “My father thought that we were being improperly robbed of your society, and went to try to persuade you to return, didn’t he?  I told him I thought it a shocking liberty; but you ought to forgive him—­on the ground of his disappointment.”

The cup Elfrida held shook in its saucer, and she put it down to silence it.  Janet did not know, did not suspect, then.  Well, she should; her indifference was too maddening.

“Under the circumstances it was not a liberty at all.  Mr. Cardiff wanted me to come back to marry him.”

There!  It was done, and as brutally as possible.  Her vanity was avenged—­she could have her triumphs too.  And instant with its gratification came the cold recoil of herself upon herself, a sense of shame, a longing to undo.

Janet took the announcement with the very slightest lifting of her eyebrows.  She bent her head and stirred her teacup meditatively, then looked up gravely at Elfrida.

“Really?” she said.  “And may I ask—­whether you have come back for that?”