Mrs. Boniface’s natural hospitality and goodness of heart fitted her admirably for this particular form of kindness; moreover, she knew that her daughter would prove a help and not a hindrance, for she could in all things trust Cecil, who was the sort of girl who can be friends with men without flirting with them. At last the front door opened and footsteps sounded in the hall; little Lance ran out to greet Mr. Boniface and Roy, and Frithiof felt a sudden shame as he remembered the purse-proud tradesman that foolish prejudice had conjured up in his brain—a being wholly unlike the kindly, pleasant-looking man who now shook hands with him, seeming in a moment to know who he was and all about him. “And so you have been in London all this time!” exclaimed Roy. “Whereabouts are you staying?” “Close to Vauxhall Station,” replied Frithiof. “Two or three times I thought of looking you up, but there was always so much to do.” “You have found work here, then?” “No, indeed; I wish I had. It seems to me one may starve in this place before finding anything to do.” “Gwen wishes to say good-night to you, Herr Falck,” said Cecil, leading the little girl up to him; and the bitter look died out of Frithiof’s face for a minute as he stooped to kiss the baby mouth that was temptingly offered to him. “It will be hard if in all London we can not find you something,” said Mr. Boniface. “What sort of work do you want?” “I would do anything,” said Frithiof. “Sweep a crossing if necessary.” They all laughed. “Many people say that vaguely,” said Mr. Boniface. “But when one comes to practical details they draw back. The mud and the broom look all very well in the distance, you see.” Then as a bell was rung in the hall: “Let us have tea first, and afterward, if you will come into my study we will talk the matter over. We are old-fashioned people in this house, and keep to the old custom of tea and supper. I don’t know how you manage such things in Norway, but to my mind it seems that the middle of the day is the time for the square meal, as they say in America.” If the meal that awaited them in the dining-room was not “square,” it was at any rate very tempting; from the fine damask table cloth to the silver gypsy kettle, from the delicately arranged chrysanthemums to the Crown Derby cups and saucers, all bespoke a good taste and the personal supervision of one who really cared for beauty and order. The very food looked unlike ordinary food, the horseshoes of fancy bread, the butter swan in its parsley-bordered lake, the honeycomb, the cakes hot and cold, and the beautiful bunches of grapes from the greenhouse, all seemed to have a sort of character of their own. For the first time for weeks Frithiof felt hungry. No more was said of the unappetizing subject of the dearth of work, nor did they speak much of their Norwegian recollections, because they knew it would be a sore subject with him just now.