If he came now—he would win her. If he would but carry her the first bit of the way, she would try to walk the rest of it herself. And as she sat there waiting for him she decided in her shrinking soul: If he comes, I shall live. If the other one comes, I must die. And when she heard steps on the stairs, and they were not those of Gunnar, and there was a knock at the door, she bent her head and went shivering to open it for Helge Gram, instinctively feeling that she opened the door to the fate she had challenged. She stood looking at him while he walked into the room, putting his hat on a chair. She had not acknowledged his greeting this time either. “I knew you were in town,” said he. “I came the day before yesterday from Paris. I looked up your address at the club, and meant to come and see you some day—but then I saw you in the street this afternoon. I recognized your grey fur a long way off.” He spoke swiftly—out of breath, as it were. “Will you not say good evening to me? Are you vexed because I have come to see you?” “Good evening, Helge,” she said, taking the hand he offered her. “Will you not sit down, please?” She sat down on the sofa. She could hear that her voice sounded calm and as usual. But in her brain she had the same delirious sensation of dread as in the afternoon. “I wanted to come and see you,” said Helge, sitting down on a chair close to her. “It was good of you,” replied Jenny. Both were silent. “You live in Bergen now,” she said. “I saw that you had got your degree. I congratulate you.” “Thank you.” There was another pause. “You have been abroad a long time. I meant to write to you sometimes, but it never came off. Heggen lives in this house, I see.” “Yes; I wrote him to get a studio for me, but they are so dear and so difficult to find. This room has a good light, though.” “I see that you have some pictures drying.” He rose, went across the room, but returned immediately to his seat. Jenny bent her head, feeling that he did not take his eyes from her. They tried to keep up conversation. He asked about Francesca Ahlin and other acquaintances they had in common, but there were long intervals when he sat staring at her. “Do you know that my parents are divorced?” he asked suddenly. She nodded. “They stayed together for our sake as long as they could, whining and creaking against each other like two millstones until they had ground everything to powder between them. There was nothing more to grind, I suppose, so the mill stopped.