“Shall we stand up for a minute under that porch, Roy?” said the girl, glancing at a villa which they were just passing. “No, no,” said Frithiof: “please take shelter with us. My father’s villa is close by. Please come.” And since Cecil was genuinely glad not to get wet through, and since Roy, though he cared nothing for the rain, was glad to have a chance of seeing the inside of a Norwegian villa, they accepted the kindly offer, and followed their guide into the pretty, snug-looking house. Roy had heard a good deal of talk about sweetness and light, but he thought he had never realized the meaning of the words till the moment when he was ushered into that pretty Norwegian drawing-room, with its painted floor and groups of flowers, and its pink-tinted walls, about which the green ivy wreathed itself picturesquely, now twining itself round some mirror or picture-frame, now forming a sort of informal frieze round the whole room, its roots so cleverly hidden away in sheltered corners or on unobtrusive brackets that the growth had all the fascination of mystery. The presiding genius of the place, and the very center of all that charmed, stood by one of the windows, the light falling on her golden hair. She had taken off her hat and was flicking the rain-drops from it with her handkerchief when Frithiof introduced the two Bonifaces, and Roy, who found his novel experience a little embarrassing, was speedily set at ease by her delightful naturalness and frank courtesy. Her bow and smile were grace itself, and she seemed to take the whole proceeding entirely as a matter of course; one might have supposed that she was in the habit of sheltering wet tourists every day of her life. “I am so glad my brother found you,” she exclaimed. “You would have been wet through had you walked on to Bergen. Swanhild, run and fetch a duster; oh, you have brought one already, that’s a good child. Now let me wipe your dress,” she added, turning to Cecil. “Where has every one disappeared to?” asked Frithiof. “Father has walked on to Holdt’s Hotel with the Morgans,” said Swanhild. “They would not wait, though we tried to persuade them to. Father is going to talk over their route with them.” Cecil saw a momentary look of annoyance on his face; but the next minute he was talking as pleasantly as possible to Roy, and before long the question of routes was being discussed, and as fast as Frithiof suggested one place, Sigrid and Swanhild mentioned others which must on no account be missed. “And you can really only spare a month for it all?” asked Sigrid. “Then I should give up going to Christiania or Trondhjem if I were you. They will not interest you half as much as this southwest coast.” “But, Sigrid, it is impossible to leave out Kongswold and Dombaas. For you are a botanist, are you not?” said Frithiof, turning to the Englishman, “and those places are perfection for flowers.”