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And in a dim sort of way, too, it began to strike her by degrees that the analogy was a true one, that Bertram Ingledew, among the Englishmen with whom she was accustomed to mix, was like a civilised being in the midst of barbarians, who feel and recognise but dimly and half-unconsciously his innate superiority.
"I never thought of that," Frida answered slowly. "I've said the same thing a hundred times over myself before now; and I see how irrational it is. But, there, Mr. Ingledew, that's why I always like talking with you so much: you make one take such a totally new view of things." She looked down and was silent a minute. Her breast heaved and fell. She was a beautiful woman, very tall and queenly.
In the drawing-room, meanwhile, Bertram Ingledew was reflecting, as he waited for the church people to clear away, how interesting these English clothes-taboos and day-taboos promised to prove, beside some similar customs he had met with or read of in his investigations elsewhere.
He was silent for a moment. "Do you take any medicine?" he asked, at length. "Yes; Mr. Ingledew sent me some." "What is it like?" "I don't know; it is not disagreeable. Flossy looked at it, and said that it was a calming mixture." "I should like to see the prescription; perhaps it does not quite suit you. And who gives it to you?" "I take it myself; it is kept in my bed-room."
Ingledew," Frida exclaimed, "do you know, when you talk like that, I always long to ask you where on earth you come from, and who are these your people you so often speak about. A blessed people: I would like to learn about them; and yet I'm afraid to. You almost seem to me like a being from another planet."
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