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 afraid of him. “That's right, darling,” the man answered, stooping down and laying his cheek against her own once more. “You are mine, and I am yours. You are not and never were Robert Monteith's, my Frida. So now, good-night, till Monday at two, beside the stile in Middle Mill Meadows!” She clung to him for a moment in a passionate embrace. He let her stop there, while he smoothed her dark hair with one free hand. Then suddenly, with a burst, the older feelings of her race overcame her for a minute; she broke from his grasp and hid her head, all crimson, in a cushion on the sofa. One second later, again, she lifted her face unabashed. The new impulse stirred her. “I'm proud I love you, Bertram,” she cried, with red lips and flashing eyes; “and I'm proud you love me!” With that, she slipped quietly out, and walked, erect and graceful, no longer ashamed, down the lodging-house passage. X When she returned, Robert Monteith sat asleep over his paper in his easy-chair. It was his wont at night when he returned from business. Frida cast one contemptuous glance as she passed at his burly, unintelligent form, and went up to her bedroom. But all that night long she never slept. Her head was too full of Bertram Ingledew.