“Have you then only the gift of making other people happy?” said Frithiof. “That seems strange.”
“You will perhaps think me very discontented,” she said, with a pathetic little sadness in her tone which touched him; “but seeing how fresh and simple and happy your life is out here makes me more out of heart than ever with my own home. You must not think I am grumbling; they are very good to me, you know, and give me everything that money can buy; but somehow there is so much that jars on one, and here there seems nothing but kindliness and ease and peace.”
“I am glad you like our life,” he said; “so very glad.”
And as she told him more of her home and her London life, and of how little it satisfied her, her words, and still more her manner and her sweet eyes, seemed to weave a sort of spell about him, seemed to lure him on into a wonderful future, and to waken in him a new life.
“I like him,” thought Blanche to herself. “Perhaps after all this Norwegian tour will not be so dull. I like to see his eye light up so eagerly; he really has beautiful eyes! I almost think—I really almost think I am just a little bit in love with him.”
At this moment they happened to overtake two English tourists on the road; as they passed on in front of them Frithiof, with native courtesy, took off his hat.
“You surely don’t know that man? He is only a shopkeeper,” said Blanche, not even taking the trouble to lower her voice.
Frithiof crimsoned to the roots of his hair.
“I am afraid he must have heard what you said,” he exclaimed, quickening his pace in the discomfort of the realization. “I do not know him certainly, but one is bound to be courteous to strangers.”
“I know exactly who he is,” said Blanche, “for he and his sister were on the steamer, and Cyril found out all about them. He is Boniface, the music-shop man.”