“But I offended them, I’m afraid—asked Miss Paulsen to come home with me late one evening.” “Gunnar, how could you!” “Well, I was not quite sober, you understand; it was only a joke, you know. If by any chance she had consented, I should have been in an awful fix. Might have had to marry a little girl who amuses herself sniffing at such things—no, thank you. It was great fun to see her so virtuously offended. There was no danger really—little girls of that sort don’t give away their treasure without making sure of a fair return.” He blushed suddenly. It struck him that Jenny might think it tactless of him to speak like that before her—now. But she only laughed: “What mad things you do!” As Heggen went on talking, the unnatural, painful shyness gradually left her. Once or twice, when she did not notice it, his eyes anxiously scanned her face—heavens! how thin and hollow-eyed she was, and furrowed about the mouth. The sinews of her neck were prominent, and there were a couple of ugly lines across the throat. The rain had stopped, and she consented to go for a walk with him. They walked in the sea-mist along the deserted road with the scraggy poplars. “Take my arm,” said Gunnar casually, and Jenny took it, feeling heavy and tired. “It must be awfully dull for you here, Jenny—don’t you think it would be much better if you went to Berlin?” Jenny shook her head. “You would have the museums there to go to and other things besides—and somebody to be with at times. You don’t care to go to National anyway. Won’t you come, just for a bit of a change? You must be deadly dull here.” “Oh no, Gunnar—I could not go now, you understand.” “You look quite nice in that ulster,” said Gunnar cautiously, after a short pause. Jenny bent her head. “Oh, I am a fool,” said he suddenly. “Forgive me. You must tell me, Jenny, if I bother you.” “Oh no, you don’t bother me. I am glad you came.” “I realize that it must be awful for you, Jenny.” His voice had changed completely. “I quite realize it, but I am sure you are making it still worse by going about here all alone. I do think you ought to go somewhere else—somewhere a little less hopeless than this.” He was looking at the dark plain and the rows of poplars losing themselves in the distance. “Mrs. Schlessinger is so very kind,” said Jenny evasively. “Oh yes, good soul; I am sure she is.” He smiled. “I think she suspects me of being the culprit.” “Probably,” said Jenny, smiling too. They walked on in silence. After a while Gunnar asked: “How are you going to arrange matters? Have you made any plans as to the future?” “I don’t know yet. I suppose you mean about the child? I may leave it with Mrs. Schlessinger for a time; she would look after it all right, I dare say. Or I may get some one to adopt it; you know, such children are adopted sometimes. I might call myself Mrs. Winge and never mind what people think.”