They sat there talking for a good half-hour before Roy and his father returned, but to Frithiof the time seemed short enough. He scarcely knew what it was that had such a charm for him; their talk was not particularly brilliant, and yet it somehow interested him.
Mrs. Boniface was one of those very natural, homely people whose commonplace remarks have a sort of flavor of their own, and Cecil had something of the same gift. She never tried to make an impression, but went on her way so quietly, that it was often not until she was gone that people realized what she had been to them. Perhaps what really chased away Frithiof’s gloom, and banished the look of the Ishmaelite from his face, was the perception that these people really cared for him, that their kindness was not labored formality but a genuine thing. Tossed about for so long among hard-headed money-makers, forced every day to confront glaring contrasts of poverty and wealth, familiarized with the sight of every kind of evil, it was this sort of thing that he needed.
And surely it is strange that in these days when people are willing to devote so much time and trouble to good works, so few are willing to make their own homes the havens of refuge they might be. A home is apt to become either a mere place of general entertainment, or else a selfishly guarded spot where we may take our ease without a thought of those who are alone in the world. Many will ask a man in Frithiof’s position to an at-home or a dance, but very few care to take such a one into their real home and make him one of themselves. They will talk sadly about the temptations of town life, but they will not in this matter stir an inch to counteract them.
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?”