CHAPTER IX.
Frida had fled to her own room in the upper floor of the villa. Another might have given way to tears, or have poured out her heart to the sympathizing Jessie; this girl did neither; but with restless haste made the preparations for her journey.
The harsh repulse of her father, which burnt like fire into her soul, left her only one thought. Away out of this house from which he wished to drive her, away as quick as possible.
Frida had drawn out her travelling trunk, which still stood in the corner of the apartment, and collected her things together. She did it silently, tearlessly, but with a stormy haste, as if she would escape some misfortune. She knelt before the open box and was in the act of laying her dresses in it, when a step sounded outside. It must be her uncle who was looking for her, she knew that he would come to her, and would beg him to take her to an hotel. There they could arrange about her return home. She would be docile, obedient in everything, only he must not attempt to keep her longer here. The steps came nearer, the door opened, and on the threshold stood--her father!
Frida trembled violently, the shawl which she held in her hand fell to the ground, and she stood as if rooted to the spot.
Sandow entered and shut the door; he looked at the open box and the things scattered around.
"You are going?"
"Yes."
Question and answer were alike short and abrupt. It seemed as if the gulf between father and daughter would again open wide. Sandow was silent for a few moments, he visibly struggled with himself; at last he said--
"Come to me, Frida!"