he went on in spite of her, with a man's strong persistence.
Notwithstanding his gentleness he was always virile. "Good-bye!" he
cried. "Good-bye! why on earth good-bye, Frida? When I left you
before dinner you never said one word of it to me."

"Oh, no," Frida cried, sobbing. "It's all Robert, Robert! As soon
as ever you were gone, he called me into the library--which always
means he's going to talk over some dreadful business with me--and
he said to me, 'Frida, I've just heard from Phil that this man
Ingledew, who's chosen to foist himself upon us, holds opinions and
sentiments which entirely unfit him from being proper company for
any lady. Now, he's been coming here a great deal too often of
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