Elfrida retracted none of her admiration, and she added to it, when she ceded her sympathy, the freedom of a fortified city; but Janet hungered for more.

Inwardly she cried out for the something warm and human that was lacking to Elfrida's feeling for her, and sometimes she asked herself with grieved cynicism how her friend found it worth while to pretend to care so cleverly.

More than once she had written to Elfrida with the deliberate purpose of soothing herself by provoking some tenderness in reply, and invariably the key she had struck had been that of homage, more or less whimsically unwilling.

"_Don't_ write such delicious things to me, _ma mie_," would come the answer.
"You make me curl up with envy.

What shall I do if malice and all uncharitableness follow?
I admire you so horribly--there!" Janet told herself sorely that she was sick of Elfrida's admiration--it was not the stuff friendships were made of.