Bertram smiled a strange smile. "There are NO problems," he
answered confidently. "You make them yourselves. You surround life
with taboos, and then--you talk despairingly of the problems with
which your own taboos alone have saddled you."






IX





At half-past nine one evening that week, Bertram was seated in his
sitting-room at Miss Blake's lodgings, making entries, as usual,
on the subject of taboo in his big black notebook. It was a large
bare room, furnished with the customary round rosewood centre
table, and decorated by a pair of green china vases, a set of wax
flowers under a big glass shade, and a picture representing two
mythical beings, with women's faces and birds' wings, hovering over
the figure of a sleeping baby. Suddenly a hurried knock at the door
attracted his attention. "Come in," he said softly, in that gentle
and almost deferential voice which he used alike to his equals and
to the lodging-house servant. The door opened at once, and Frida
entered.