“Oh!” Elfrida was saying, “it does make life more interesting, I admit—­up to a certain point.  And I suppose it’s to be condoned from the point of view of the species.  Whoever started us, and wants us to go on, excuses marriage, I suppose.  And of course the men are not affected by it.  But for women, it is degrading —­horrible.  Especially for women like you and me, to whom life may mean something else.  Fancy being the author of babies when one could be the author of books! Don’t tell me you’d rather!”

“I!” said Janet “Oh, I’m out of it.  But I approve the principle.”

“Besides, the commonplaceness, the eternal routine, the being tied together, the—­the domestic virtues!  It must be death, absolute death, to any fineness of nature.  No,” Elfrida went on decisively, “people with anything in them that is worth saving may love as much as they feel disposed, but they ought to keep their freedom.  And some of them do nowadays.”

“Do you mean,” said Janet slowly, “that they dispense with the ceremony?”

“They dispense with the condition.  They—­they don’t go so far.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in Platonics,” Janet answered, with wilful misunderstanding.

“You know I don’t believe in them.  Any more,” Elfrida added lightly, “than I believe in this exaltation you impute to the race of a passion it shares with—­with the mollusks.  It’s pure self-flattery.”

There was a moment’s silence.  Elfrida clasped her hands behind her head and turned her face toward the window so that all the light that came through softly gathered in it.  Janet felt the girl’s beauty as if it were a burden, pressing with literal physical weight upon her heart She made a futile effort to lift it with words.  “Frida,” she said, “you are beautiful to—­to hurt to-night Why has nobody ever painted a creature like you?”

It was as if she touched an inner spring of the girl’s nature, touched it electrically.  Elfrida leaned forward consciously with shining eyes.  “Truly am I, Janetta?  Ah—­to-night!  Well, yes, perhaps to-night, I am.  It is an effect of chiaroscuro.  But what about always—­what about generally, Janetta?  I have such horrid doubts.  If it weren’t for my nose I should be satisfied—­yes, I think I should be satisfied.  But I can’t deceive myself about my nose, Janetta; it’s thick!”

“It isn’t a particularly spiritually-minded nose,” Janet laughed.  “But console yourself, it’s thoughtful.”

Elfrida put her elbows on her knees and framed her face with the palms of her hands.  “If I am beautiful to-night you ought to love me.  Do you love me, Janetta?  Really love me?  Could you imagine,” she went on, with a whimsical spoiled shake of her head, “any one else doing it?”

Janet’s fingers closed tightly on the arm of her chair.  Was it coming already, then?

“Yes,” she said slowly, “I could imagine it well.”

“More than one?” Elfrida insisted prettily.  “More than two or three?  A dozen, perhaps?”