They walked on in silence a while through the deep, lush grass of the July meadow. At last Bertram spoke again: “Frida,” he said, with a trembling quiver, “I didn't sleep last night. I was thinking this thing over—this question of our relations.”
“Nor did I,” Frida answered, thrilling through, responsive. “I was thinking the same thing.... And, Bertram, 'twas the happiest night I ever remember.”
Bertram's face flushed rosy red, that native colour of triumphant love; but he answered nothing. He only looked at her with a look more eloquent by far than a thousand speeches.
“Frida,” he went on at last, “I've been thinking it all over; and I feel, if only you can come away with me for just seven days, I could arrange at the end of that time—to take you home with me.”
Frida's face in turn waxed rosy red; but she answered only in a very low voice: “Thank you, Bertram.”
“Would you go with me?” Bertram cried, his face aglow with pleasure. “You know, it's a very, very long way off; and I can't even tell you where it is or how you get there. But can you trust me enough to try? Are you not afraid to come with me?”
Frida's voice trembled slightly.
“I'm not afraid, if that's all,” she answered in a very firm tone. “I love you, and I trust you, and I could follow you to the world's end—or, if needful, out of it. But there's one other question. Bertram, ought I to?”
She asked it, more to see what answer Bertram would make to her than from any real doubt; for ever since that kiss last night, she felt sure in her own mind with a woman's certainty whatever Bertram told her was the thing she ought to do; but she wanted to know in what light he regarded it.
Bertram gazed at her hard.