Friedrich kissed her hand in gratitude, but refused, explaining that he had enough capital for the undertaking of his business venture, and that his personal wants were of the simplest.
"But your house, Friedrich. It is not fitting that a von Rittenheim should live in a cabin like that."
"Man makes the house, Hilda, and I don't feel that my dignity is hurt. I am comfortable, and that is all that is necessary."
He happened to think of this conversation as he drank the last of his coffee, and he realized that Hilda's offer was another of the tiny threads that linked him to her. He thought how true it was now that, so long as he could make his living out of his new business, he cared nothing for the roof that sheltered him; while on that golden night of happiness when Sydney and he had watched the river flow under the bridge, he had been glad of his new prosperity because he could build for her a house such as she should fancy.
He did not allow himself to think often of Sydney. He was glad that he had had the strength to refrain from asking her to be his wife until he had something more substantial than his name to offer her. It relieved somewhat the present situation. Yet her avoidance of him he could construe only as contempt for a man who had played with her while bound by other ties. Sometimes he felt that he must explain to her how intangible were those bonds. Yet he was sufficiently conscious of their actual existence to feel that the difficulties of explanation were almost insurmountable. And Hilda, poor child, took his devotion entirely for granted.
His thoughts were leading him in a circle, and it was a relief when Melissa appeared in the doorway. He sprang up to welcome her.
"Come in, Mrs. Yare-brough. How do you do?"
"Ah'm well, thank ye. How are you?" returned Melissa, in the polite formula of her kind.
"Won't you have a cup of coffee?"