Gert looked into her face; neither of them spoke. At last he said: “When did you make up your mind to go?” “You know it has been my intention all along to go abroad again.” “I know. But I mean how long have you been determined—when did you decide to go so soon?” “At Tegneby.” “I wish you had told me before,” said Gram, and his voice, low and calm as it was, cut her to the heart. She was silent for a moment. “I did not want to write it, Gert. I would rather tell you. When I wrote you yesterday to come and see me I meant to tell you, but I could not.” His face turned livid. “I see. My God, how you must have suffered, child!” he exclaimed. “Yes, mostly for your sake, Gert. I will not ask you to forgive me.” “I forgive you? Great heavens! Can _you_ forgive me? I knew this day would come.” “I suppose we both did.” He threw himself suddenly face downwards on the ground. She bent and laid her hand on his neck. “Oh, my dear Jenny—my little one—what have I done to you?” “Dearest....” “Little white bird, have I touched you with my ugly unclean hands—spotted your white wings?” “Gert”—she took both his hands, speaking impetuously—“listen to me. You have done nothing but what was good and kind; it is I who have done wrong. I was tired and you gave me rest; I was cold and you warmed me. I needed rest and I needed warmth; I needed to feel that somebody loved me. I did not wish to deceive you, Gert, but you did not understand—I could not make you see that I loved you in a different way—with a very poor love. Can you not understand?” “No, Jenny, I don’t believe that a young innocent girl gives herself to a man if she does not believe her love will last.” “That is just what I ask you to forgive—I knew you did not understand, and yet I accepted all you gave me. It became more and more unendurable, and I realized that I could not go on. I am fond of you, Gert, but I cannot go on only taking when I can give you nothing that is real.” “Is this what you wanted to tell me yesterday?” asked Gert after a pause. She nodded. “And instead....” Jenny turned scarlet. “I had not the courage. You were so happy to come, and I saw that you had been longing and waiting.” He raised his head quickly: “You should not have done it. No, you should not have given me—alms.” Her face was turned away; she remembered the painful hours of yesterday in her hot, stuffy studio, hurriedly dusting and tidying to receive him, her heart aching with sorrow; but she did not care to tell him: “I did not quite know myself—when you came. I thought for an instant—I wanted to make sure.” “Alms.” He moved his head as if in pain. “It was alms all the time, then—what you gave me.” “But, Gert, don’t you understand that it is just what I have accepted from you—alms—always?” “No,” he said abruptly, lying face downwards again. After a little he lifted his head: “Jenny, is there any one else?” “No,” she replied, vexed at the thought.