"You might explain."
"I never saw a man who wanted so many things explained. Don't you see that, as long as Frida stays at home, petting and pampering him and doing all his work for him, he'll never take the trouble to marry; but as soon as she goes away, and stays away——"
"I see, I see; he marries. You force his hand—and heart."
"Exactly. And, if he marries, Frida stays away altogether. She's free."
"Yes; she's free. If she goes; but she'll never go."
"Won't she? She's going next Monday. It's all arranged. I've told her that she's in her father's way, that he wants to marry, and keeps single for her sake. And she believes it."
He walked up and down with his hands in his pockets, a prey to bewildering emotions.
"It's ingenious and delightful, your plot," said he. "But I can't say that I grasp all the minutiæ, the practical details. For instance (it's a brutal question, but), who's going to provide the—the funds for this expedition to Scandinavia—or was it Abyssinia?"
"Funds? Oh, that's all right. She's got any amount of her own, though you wouldn't know it."
"I didn't know it." He champed his upper lip. He could not in the least account for the feeling, but he was bitterly, basely disappointed at this last revelation. Miss Tancred was independent. Up till now he could not bring himself to believe in her flight; he did not want to believe in it; it would have been a relief to him to know that the strange bird's wings were clipped.