f lust and
neglect and shame such as you couldn't even dream of; women dying of
foul disease, in want and dirt deliberately forced upon them by the
will of your society; destined beforehand for death, a hateful lingering
death--a death more disgusting than aught you can conceive--in order
that the rest of you may be safely tabooed, each a maid intact, for the
man who weds her. It's the hatefullest taboo of all the hateful taboos
I've ever seen on my wanderings, the unworthiest of a pure or moral
community."

He shut his eyes as if to forget the horrors of which he spoke. They
were fresh and real to him. Frida did not like to question him further.
She knew to what he referred, and in a dim, vague way (for she was less
wise than he, she knew) she thought she could imagine why he found it
all so terrible.

They walked on in silence a while through the deep, lush grass of the
July meadow. At last Bertram spoke again: "Frida," he said, with a
trembling quiver, "I didn't sleep last night. I was thinking this thing
over--this question of our relations."

"Nor did I," Frida answered, thrilling through, responsive. "I was
thinking the same thing.... And, Bertram, 'twas the happiest night I
ever remember."

Bertram's face flushed rosy red, that native colour of triumphant love;
but he answered nothing. He only looked at her with a look more eloquent
by far than a thousand speeches.

"Frida," he went on at last, "I've been thinking it all over; and I
feel, if only you can come away with me for just seven days, I could
arrange at the end of that time--to take you home with me."

Frida's face in turn waxed rosy red; but she answered only in a very low
voice: "Thank you, Bertram."

"Would you go with me?" Bertram cried, his face aglow with pleasure.
"You know, it's a very, very long way off; and I can't even tell you
where it is or how you get there. But can you trust me enough to try?
Are you not afraid to come with me?"

Frida's voice trembled slightly.

"I'm not afraid, if that's all," she answered in a very firm tone.
"I love you, and I trust you, and I could follow you to the world's
end--or, if needful, out of it. But there's one other question. Bertram,
ought I to?"

She asked it, more to see what answer Bertram would make to her than
from any real doubt; for ever since that kiss last night, she felt sure
in her own mind with a woman's certainty whatever Bertram told her
was the thing she ought to do; but she wan