“Perhaps not, but it is hateful all the same. I have no sympathy with free love, if it means that people should take up with each other although they presume they will tire of one another. It seems to me that even to break an ordinary platonic engagement is a slight stain on the one who breaks it. But if one has been unfortunate enough to make a mistake, and then goes through the marriage ceremony for the sake of what people say, it is a blasphemy to stand there and make a promise that one has agreed beforehand not to keep.” By dawn the visitors left. Heggen stayed a second after the others had gone. Jenny opened the balcony doors to let out the smoke. The sky was grey, with a pale, reddish light appearing above the housetops. Heggen went up to her: “Thanks so much. We’ve had a pleasant Christmas. What are you thinking of?” “That it is Christmas morning. I wonder if they got my parcel at home in time.” “I daresay they did. You sent it on the eleventh, didn’t you?” “I did. It was always so nice on Christmas morning to go in and look at the tree and the presents in daylight—but I was young then,” she added, smiling. “They say there’s been lots of snow this winter. I suppose the children are tobogganing in the mountains today.” “Yes, probably,” said Heggen. “You are getting cold. Good-night, and thanks again.” “Good-night, and a happy Christmas to you, Gunnar.” They shook hands. She stayed by the window a little while after he had gone. VII One day during Christmas week Gram went into a _trattoria_. Heggen and Jenny were sitting at a table, but they did not see him. As he was taking off his overcoat, he heard Heggen say: “I don’t like that man.” “No; he is disgusting,” said Jenny, sighing. “It is not good for her either—with this sirocco blowing. She will be a rag tomorrow. I suppose she does not work at all—only walks about with that fellow?” “Work, no! But I can do nothing. She walks from here to Viterbo with him in those thin slippers of hers, in spite of the cold and the sirocco—only because the man can tell her about Hans Hermann.” Gram greeted them as he passed. They made a movement as if inviting him to sit at their table, but he pretended not to see, and sat down farther up the room with his back to them. He understood that they were speaking about Francesca. He was almost a daily visitor now at the Via Vantaggio; he could not help it. Miss Winge was always alone, reading or sewing, and seemed pleased to see him. He thought she had changed a little of late; she was not so determined or so ready with her opinions as she used to be; not so inclined to argue and to lay down the law. She seemed almost a little sad. He asked her once if she were not quite well. “Yes, I am very well, thank you. Why do you ask?” “I don’t know—you seem so quiet nowadays.” She had lighted the lamp meanwhile, and he noticed that she blushed.