“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.

“Why, Frida,” he said, “it’s right, of course, to go.  The thing that’s wrong is to stop with that man one minute longer than’s absolutely necessary.  You don’t love him—­you never loved him; or, if you ever did, you’ve long since ceased to do so.  Well, then, it’s a dishonour to yourself to spend one more day with him.  How can you submit to the hateful endearments of a man you don’t love or care for?  How wrong to yourself, how infinitely more wrong to your still unborn and unbegotten children!  Would you consent to become the mother of sons and daughters by a man whose whole character is utterly repugnant to you?  Nature has given us this divine instinct of love within, to tell us with what persons we should spontaneously unite:  will you fly in her face and unite with a man whom you feel and know to be wholly unworthy of you?  With us, such conduct would be considered disgraceful.  We think every man and woman should be free to do as they will with their own persons; for that is the very basis and foundation of personal liberty.  But if any man or woman were openly to confess they yielded their persons to another for any other reason than because the strongest sympathy and love compelled them, we should silently despise them.  If you don’t love Monteith, it’s your duty to him, and still more your duty to yourself and your unborn children, at once to leave him; if you do love me, it’s your duty to me, and still more your duty to yourself and our unborn children, at once to cleave to me.  Don’t let any sophisms of taboo-mongers come in to obscure that plain natural duty.  Do right first; let all else go.  For one of yourselves, a poet of your own, has said truly: 

’Because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.’”