late. Next time he calls, I
wish you to tell Martha you're not at home to him.'"

Bertram looked across at her with a melting look in his honest blue
eyes. "And you came round to tell me of it, you dear thing!" he cried,
seizing her hand and grasping it hard. "O Frida, how kind of you!"

Frida trembled from head to foot. The blood throbbed in her pulse. "Then
you're not vexed with me," she sobbed out, all tremulous with gladness.

"Vexed with you! O Frida, how could I be vexed? You poor child! I'm so
pleased, so glad, so grateful!"

Frida let her hand rest unresisting in his. "But, Bertram," she
murmured,--"I MUST call you Bertram--I couldn't help it, you know. I
like you so much, I couldn't let you go for ever without just saying
good-bye to you."

"You DON'T like me; you LOVE me," Bertram answered with masculine
confidence. "No, you needn't blush, Frida; you can't deceive me.... My
darling, you love me, and you know I love you. Why should we two make
any secret about our hearts any longer?" He laid his hand on her face
again, making it tingle with joy. "Frida," he said solemnly, "you
don't love that man you call your husband.... You haven't loved him for
years.... You never really loved him."

There was something about the mere sound of Bertram's calm voice that
made Frida speak the truth more plainly and frankly than she could ever
have spoken it to any ordinary Englishman. Yet she hung down her
head, even so, and hesitated slightly. "Just at first," she murmured
half-inaudibly, "I used to THINK I loved him. At any rate, I was pleased
and flattered he should marry me."

"Pleased and flattered!" Bertram exclaimed, more to himself than to her;
"great Heavens, how incredible! Pleased and flattered by that man! One
can hardly conceive it! But you've never loved him since, Frida. You
can't look me in the face and tell me you love him."

"No, not since the first few months," Frida answered, still hanging her
head. "But, Bertram, he's my husband, and of course I must obey him."

"You must do nothing of the sort," Bertram cried authoritatively. "You
don't love him at all, and you mustn't pretend to. It's wrong: it's
wicked. Sooner or later--" He checked himself. "Frida," he went on,
after a moment's pause, "I won't speak to you of what I was going to
say just now. I'll wait a bit till you're stronger and better able to
understand it. But there must be no more silly talk of farewells between
us. I won't allow it. Yo