“Believe me, Jenny, there is no other happiness than a great love.” She went up to him and he rose; they stood an instant close to one another without speaking. “I must go now,” he said abruptly, in a strained voice. “I must be back in time, or she will suspect something.” Jenny nodded, and followed him to the door. “You must not believe that your heart is beyond love,” he said; “it is a proud heart—and a warm one. Will you still count me among your friends, little girl?” “Yes, thank you,” said Jenny, giving him her hand. He bent over it and held it long to his lips—longer than ever before. IX Gunnar Heggen and Jenny Winge were to have an exhibition together in November. He came to town for that purpose. He had been in the country that summer, painting red granite, green pines, and blue sky, and had lately been to Stockholm, where he had sold a picture. “How is Cesca?” asked Jenny, when Heggen was in her studio one morning having a drink. “Cesca is all right.” Gunnar took a gulp from his glass, smoked, and looked at Jenny, and she looked at him. It was so nice to be together again and talk about people and things she had got so far away from. It seemed almost as if it had been in a remote country beyond all oceans that she had known him and Cesca, lived and worked with them, and been happy with them. She looked at his open sunburnt face and crooked nose; it had been broken when he was a child. Cesca once said that the blow had saved Gunnar’s face from being the most perfect fashion-plate type. There was some truth in it. Looking at his features separately, they were exactly those of a rustic Adonis. His brown hair curled over a low, broad forehead and big steely blue eyes; the mouth was red, with full lips and beautiful white teeth. His face and his strong neck were tanned by the sun, and his broad, somewhat short body with well-knit muscles was almost brutally well shaped. But the sensual mouth and heavy eyelids had a peculiarly innocent and unaffected expression, and his smile could be most refined. The hands were regular working hands, with short fingers and strong joints, but the way he moved them was particularly graceful. He had grown thinner, but looked very well and contented, while she herself felt tired and dissatisfied. He had been working the whole summer, reading Greek tragedies and Keats and Shelley when he was not painting. “I should like to read the tragedies in the original,” said Gunnar, “and I am going to learn Greek and Latin.” “Dear me!” exclaimed Jenny. “I am afraid there are so many things you will want to study before you get any peace in your mind that you will end by not painting at all—except in your holidays.” “I have to learn those two languages because I am going to write some articles.” “You!” cried Jenny, laughing. “Are you going to write articles too?”