“I can understand,” said the consul, “that you feel very bitter, and that you resent the way in which they have behaved. But still I think you should try to get over that. After all, they knew nothing of your father’s affairs; they did not intentionally kill him. That the two disasters followed so closely on each other was but an accident.” “Still I could never accept anything from them; it is out of the question,” said Frithiof. “Excuse me if I speak plainly,” said the consul. “You are very young, and you know but little of the world. If you allow yourself to be governed by pride of this sort you can not hope to get on. Now turn it over in your mind, and if you do not feel that you can see these people, at any rate write to them.” “I cannot explain it all to you, sir,” said Frithiof. “But there are private reasons which make that altogether impossible.” The blood had mounted to his forehead, his lips had closed in a straight line; perhaps it was because they quivered that he compressed them so. “A woman in the question,” reflected the consul. “That complicates matters. All the more reason that he should leave London.” Then, aloud: “If you feel unable to apply to them, I should recommend you strongly to try America. Every one flocks to London for work, but as a matter of fact London streets just now are not paved with gold; everything is at a standstill; go where you will, you will hear that trade is bad, that employment is scarce, and that living is dear.” “If I could hear of any opening in America, I would go at once,” said Frithiof. “But at Bergen we have heard of late that it is no such easy thing even over there to meet with work. I will not pay the expenses of the voyage merely to be in my present state, and hundreds of miles further from home.” “What can you do?” asked the consul. “Is your English pretty good?” “I can write and speak it easily. And, of course, German too. I understand book-keeping.” “Any taste for teaching?” asked the consul. “None,” said Frithiof decidedly. “Then the only thing that seems open to you is the work of a secretary, or a clerkship, or perhaps you could manage translating, but that is not easy work to get. Everything now is overcrowded, so dreadfully overcrowded. However, of course I shall bear you in mind, and you yourself will leave no stone unturned. Stay, I might give you a letter of introduction to Herr Sivertsen: he might possibly find you temporary work. He is the author of that well-known book on Norway, you know. Do you know your way about yet?” “Pretty well,” said Frithiof. “Then there is his address—Museum Street. You had better take an omnibus at the Bank. Any of the Oxford Street ones will put you down at the corner, by Mudie’s. Let me know how you get on: I shall be interested to hear.” Then, with a kindly shake of the hand, Frithiof found himself dismissed; and somewhat cheered by the interview, he made his way to the address which had been given him.