he mused and hesitated. "Well, it's clearly wrong to go back," he
said, after a moment's pause. "You ought never, of course, to spend
another night with that man you don't love and should never have
lived with. But I suppose that's only a counsel of perfection: too
hard a saying for you to understand or follow for the present.
You'd better go back, just to-night: and, as time moves on, I can
arrange something else for you. But when shall I see you again?--
for now you belong to me. I sealed you with that kiss. When will
you come and see me?"

"I can't come here, you know," Frida whispered, half-terrified;
"for if I did, Miss Blake would see me."

Bertram smiled a bitter smile to himself. "So she would," he said,
musing. "And though she's not the least interested in keeping up
Robert Monteith's proprietary claim on your life and freedom, I'm
beginning to understand now that it would be an offence against
that mysterious and incomprehensible entity they call RESPECTABILITY
if she were to allow me to receive you in her rooms. It's all very
curious. But, of course, while I remain, I must be content to
submit to it. By-and-by, perhaps, Frida, we two may manage to
escape together from this iron generation. Meanwhile, I shall go up
to London less often for the present, and you can come and meet me,
dear, in the Middle Mill Fields at two o'clock on Monday."

She gazed up at him with perfect trust in those luminous dark eyes
of hers. "I will, Bertram," she said firmly. She knew not herself
what his kiss had done for her; but one thing she knew: from the
moment their lips met, she had felt and understood in a flood of
vision that perfect love which casteth out fear, and was no longer