Jenny had been to fetch their mail bag at the station; and gave Francesca the papers and the letters, and opened the one addressed to herself. Standing on the gravel of the station platform in the blazing sun, she looked through Gert’s long effusion, reading the expressions of love at the beginning and the end and skipping the rest, which was only a mass of observations on love in general. She put it back in the envelope and placed it in her hand-bag. Ugh! those letters from Gert—she could not be bothered to read them. Every word proved to her that they did not understand one another; she felt it when they talked together, but in writing it was more painfully distinct still. Yet there was a mental relationship between them—how was it that they did not harmonize? Was he stronger or weaker than she? He had lost repeatedly, had resigned, stooped, and submitted in every way, and yet he went on hoping, living, and believing. Was it weakness or vitality? She could not make out. Was it the difference in their ages after all? He was not old, but his youthfulness belonged to another period, when youth was more unsophisticated and had a healthier creed. Perhaps she was naïve too—with her aims and opinions—but it was in a quite different way. Words change their meanings after twenty years—was that the reason? The gravel glittered red and purple, and the paint on the station building was blistered by the scorching sun. As she looked up everything went dark before her eyes for a moment; it was a peculiar sensation, but probably the effect of the heat, which she seemed to feel more than usual this summer. The haze hung trembling over fields and meadows, reaching right out to where the forest lay, a dark green line under the deep blue summer sky. The foliage of the birches had already changed its colour to a darker green. Cesca was reading a letter from her husband. Her linen dress was strikingly white against the dark gravel of the platform. Gunnar Heggen’s luggage had been put on the pony cart, and he stood stroking the horse’s head and talking to it while he waited for the ladies. Cesca put her letter in her pocket, shaking her head as if trying to drive away a thought. “Sorry to keep you so long, boy—now let us start.” Jenny and Cesca took the front seat; she was taking the reins herself. “I am so pleased, Gunnar, that you could come. Won’t it be nice to be together again for a few days, we three? Lennart sends his love to both of you.” “Thanks—is he all right?” “Oh yes—first-rate, thanks. Brilliant idea of father, wasn’t it, to go away with Borghild and leave the house to me and Jenny? Old Gina looks after us, and is ready to stand on her head for us. I call it perfectly lovely.” “It is delightful to see you again, you two.”