ought or ought not to introduce "the ladies of one's family" to a
casual stranger picked up in the street, who confesses he has come
on a visit to England without a letter of introduction or even that
irreducible minimum of respectability--a portmanteau. Frida,
however, had no such scruples. She saw the young man was good-
looking and gentlemanly, and she turned to Philip with the hasty
sort of glance that says as plainly as words could say it, "Now,
then! introduce me."

Thus mutely exhorted, though with a visible effort, Philip murmured
half inarticulately, in a stifled undertone, "My sister, Mrs.
Monteith--Mr. Bertram Ingledew," and then trembled inwardly.

It was a surprise to Bertram that the beautiful woman with the
soul in her eyes should turn out to be the sister of the very
commonplace young man with the boiled-fish expression he had met
by the corner; but he disguised his astonishment, and only
interjected, as if it were the most natural remark in the world:
"I'm pleased to meet you. What a lovely gown! and how admirably it
becomes you!"

Philip opened his eyes aghast. But Frida glanced down at the dress
with a glance of approbation. The stranger's frankness, though
quaint, was really refreshing.

"I'm so glad you like it," she said, taking the compliment with
quiet dignity, as simply as it was intended. "It's all my own
taste; I chose the stuff and designed the make of it. And I know
who this is, Phil, without your troubling to tell me; it's the
gentleman you met in the street last night, and were talking about