But he told me that he had seen you, at Cheynemouth." "He must have been in the audience," Elfrida returned, in a voice that was hardly audible.
"Perhaps." For a moment there was silence between them--a natural silence, and no dumbness.

They had forgotten about themselves in the absorption of other thoughts.
"I must go," Elfrida said, with an effort; rising.

What had come to her with this thing Janet had told her?
Why had she this strange fullness in the beating of her heart, this sense, part of shame, part of fright, part of happiness, that had taken possession of her?
What had become of her strained feeling about Janet?
For it had gone, gone utterly, and with it all her pride, all her self-control.

She was conscious only of a great need of somebody's strength, of somebody's thought and interest -- of Janet's.

Yet how could she unsay anything?
She held out her hand, and Janet took it.