The other girl looked at her uncertainly. "I have felt it sometimes," she said, "but now it seems to me that I can never be sure that there is not some qualification in it--some hidden flaw." "Don't you think it's worth making the best of? Can't we make up our minds to have a little charity for the flaws?" Elfrida shook her head. "I don't think I'm capable of a friendship that demands charity," she said. "And yet, whether we close each other's lips or not, we will always have things to say, the one to the other, in this world. Is it to be dumbness between us?" There was a moment's silence in the room--a crucial moment, it seemed to both of them. Elfrida sat against the table with her elbows among its litter of paged manuscript, her face hidden in her hands. Janet rose and took a step or two toward her. Then she paused, and looked at the little bronze image on the table instead. Elfrida was suddenly shaken by deep, indrawn, silent sobs. "It is finished, then," Janet said softly; "we are to separate for always, Buddha, she and I. She will not know any more of me nor I of her--it will be, so far as we can make it, like the grave. You must belong to a strange world, Buddha, always to smile!" She spoke evenly quietly, with, restraint, and still she did not look at the convulsively silent figure in the chair. "But I am glad you will always keep that face for her, Buddha. I hope the world will, too, our world that is sometimes more bitter than you can understand. And I say good-by to you, for to her I cannot say it." And she turned to go. Elfrida stumbled to her feet and hurried to the door. "No!" she said, holding it fast. "No! You must not go that way--I owe you too much, after all. We will--we will make the best of it." "Not on that ground," Janet answered gravely. "Neither your friendship nor mine is purchasable, I hope." "No, no! That was bad. On any ground you like. Only stay a little--let us find ourselves again!" Elfrida forced a smile into what she said, and Janet let herself be drawn back to a chair.