“I ought to have put on my hat,” said Jenny, passing a hand over her hair. The ground of the sacred grove was covered with bits of paper and other litter; on the stump of a tree near the edge two ladies were seated, doing crochet work, and some little English boys played hide-and-seek behind the massive trunks. Jenny and Gram turned out of the grove and walked down the slope towards the ruin. “Is it worth while going down?” said Jenny, and without waiting for an answer, sat down on the slope. “No; let us stay here,” and Helge lay down at her feet on the short, dry grass, took off his hat, and, steadying himself on his elbow, looked up at her in silence. “How old is she?” he asked suddenly. “I mean Cesca.” “Twenty-six.” She sat looking at the view in front of her. “I am not sorry,” he said quietly. “You have noticed it, I daresay. A month ago I might have.... She was so sweet to me once, so kind and confidential, and I was not used to that kind of thing. I took it as—well, as _l’invitation à la valse_, you see, but now ... I still think she is sweet, but I don’t mind in the least if she dances with somebody else.” He was lying looking at her: “I believe it is you, Jenny, I am in love with,” he said suddenly. She turned half-way towards him, with a faint smile, and shook her head. “Yes,” said Helge firmly; “I think so. I don’t know for certain, for I have never been in love before—I know that now—although I have been engaged once.” He smiled to himself. “It was one of my blunders in the old foolish days. “This, I am sure, is love. It was you, Jenny, I saw that evening—not her. I noticed you already in the afternoon when you crossed the Corso. I stood there thinking that life was new, full of adventure, and just then you passed me, fair and slender, and stranger. Later, when I had wandered about in this foreign town, I met you again. I also noticed Cesca, of course, and no wonder I was a little flustered for a moment, but it was you I saw first. And now we are sitting here together—we two.” Her hand was close to him as she sat leaning on it; suddenly he stroked it—and she drew it away. “You are not cross with me, are you? It is really nothing to be cross about. Why should I not tell you that I believe I am in love with you? I could not resist touching your hand—I wanted to feel that it was real, for it seems to me so wonderful that you are sitting here. I do not really know you, though we have talked about many things. I know that you are clever, level-headed, and energetic—and good and truthful, but I knew that the moment I saw you and heard your voice. I don’t know any more about you now, but there is of course a great deal more to learn—and perhaps I shall never learn it. But I can see for myself, for instance, that your silk skirt is glowing hot, and that if I laid my face in your lap I should burn myself.” She made an involuntary movement with her hand across her lap.