Therefore she seemed very languid while Professor Russell and his little maid set out the tea things. She did offer faintly to help, observing that her husband had full use of only one hand. But as it was his left hand and he insisted on getting along alone, she permitted it, even to the actually pouring and handing her of the first cup of tea. Later he took a seat in a chair opposite her. The unfortunate thing with Frieda was that she seldom could control her appetite, had never been able to since her chocolate drop days. So she concluded she had best begin her plan of procedure early. "I don't see how Jack and Frank could have told you I was well, Henry," she said plaintively. "I don't suppose you have noticed but I have lost a good many pounds." As a matter of fact Frieda had lost several pounds, although she was still reasonably rounded. "No, I had not noticed before, but I observe you have," the Professor returned. "I trust there is nothing serious the matter. What is the doctor's opinion?" Frieda shook her head. "I have not seen a doctor. Really, I have not spoken of this to any one before, Henry. But do you know I think, perhaps, I have not been well for a good many months, even before I left Chicago. Maybe that is what made me cross sometimes, Henry. Maybe that's why I ran away without telling you I was going. I really think I ought to have talked the matter over with you, Henry. You would have been quite willing for me to make Jack a visit wouldn't you, Henry, just as Frank is allowing Jack to go home to the ranch?" Frieda's hand holding the tea cup shook a little. "But I didn't know this was a visit, Frieda. I thought you had gone away for good. Indeed, I am under the impression that you said you never wished to see me again." Frieda shook her head. "I never could have really said that, Henry, or if I did, you were silly to think I meant it. I often say lots of things I don't mean. And I have wanted to see you lots lately." Professor Russell took Frieda's cup away and laid firm hold on both her hands. "Look at me, Frieda," he ordered quietly, "and don't answer me until you have thought carefully about what you wish to reply. You have been a child a long time, Frieda, but my dear, you have to grow up. All of us must sooner or later. I am a good deal older than you and not only that but I care for a lot of things which seem dull and uninteresting to you. So do you care for things which do not seem vital to me. But I'm willing to confess I'm an old fogy and sometimes I believe, Frieda dear, I did you a great wrong when I married you at such a youthful age. I want you to know, my dear, that I want to do whatever is best for your happiness. I am willing to go out of your life, to relieve you of me altogether if in any way it can be managed without reflection upon you."