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