He was so strange, so simple-minded, so different in every way from
all other men, that for a moment Frida almost half-forgot to be
angry with him. In point of fact, in her heart, she was not angry
at all; she liked to feel the soft pressure of his strong man's
hand on her dainty fingers; she liked to feel the gentle way he was
stroking her smooth arm with that delicate white palm of his. It
gave her a certain immediate and unthinking pleasure to sit still
by his side and know he was full of her. Then suddenly, with a
start, she remembered her duty: she was a married woman, and she
OUGHT NOT to do it. Quickly, with a startled air, she withdrew her
hand. Bertram gazed down at her for a second, half taken aback by
her hurried withdrawal.

"Then you don't like me!" he cried, in a pained tone; "after all,
you don't like me!" One moment later, a ray of recognition broke
slowly over his face. "Oh, I forgot," he said, leaning away. "I
didn't mean to annoy you. A year or two ago, of course, I might
have held your hand in mine as long as ever I liked. You were still
a free being. But what was right then is wrong now, according to
the kaleidoscopic etiquette of your countrywomen. I forgot all that
in the heat of the moment. I recollected only we were two human
beings, of the same race and blood, with hearts that beat and hands
that lay together. I remember now, you must hide and stifle your
native impulses in future: you're tabooed for life to Robert
Monteith: I must needs respect his seal set upon you!"

And he drew a deep sigh of enforced resignation.

Frida sighed in return. "These problems are so hard," she said.