She was not in the least angry that her friend should have done her the injustice of what would have been, less adroitly managed, indiscriminate praise; in fact, she hardly thought of the value of the critique at all, so absorbed was she in the sweet sense of the impulse that made Elfrida write it.

To Janet's quick forgiveness it made up for everything; indeed, she found in it a scourge for her anger, for her resentment.

Elfrida might do what she pleased, Janet would never cavil again; she was sure now of some real possession in her friend.

But she longed to see Elfrida, to assure herself of the warm verity of this.

Besides, she wanted to feel her work in her friend's presence, to extract the censure that was due, to take the essence of praise from her eyes and voice and hand.
But she would wait.