Afterwards they sat by the stove smoking, she in the easy-chair and he on the floor with his head in her lap. “Isn’t Cesca coming back tonight either?” he asked suddenly. “No; she is staying in Tivoli till the end of the week,” Jenny answered a little nervously. “You have such pretty, slender feet.” “You are so lovely—oh, so lovely—and I am so fond of you. You don’t know how I love you, Jenny—I should like to lie down on the floor at your feet.” “Helge! Helge!” His sudden violence frightened her, but then she said to herself: he is my own darling boy. Why should I be afraid of him. “No, Helge—don’t. Not the shoes I stamp about with in those dirty streets.” Helge rose—sobered and humble. She tried to laugh the whole matter away. “There may be many dangerous bacilli on those shoes, you know.” “Ugh! What a pedant you are. And you pretend to be an artist.” He laughed too, and to hide his embarrassment, he went on boisterously: “A nice sweetheart you are. Let me smell: I thought so—you smell of turpentine and paint.” “Nonsense, dear; I have not touched a brush for three weeks. But you will have to wash, sir.” “Have you any carbolic, in case of infection?” While he was washing his hands he said: “My father used to say that women are utterly destitute of poetry.” “Your father is quite right.” “And they can cure people by ordering cold baths,” he said, with a laugh. Jenny became suddenly serious. She went to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him: “I did not want you at my feet, Helge.” When he had gone she was ashamed of herself. He was right. She did want to give him a cold bath, but she would not do it again, for she loved him. She had played a poor part tonight. She had thought of Signora Rosa. What would she have said if anything had happened? It was rather humiliating to realize that she had been afraid of a scene with an angry signora—and tried to get out of her promise to her lover. In accepting his love and responding to his kisses she had as good as bound herself over to give him all he asked. She, of all people, would not play a game where she took everything and gave but little—not more than she could easily withdraw, if she changed her mind. It was only nerves—this dread of something she had never tried. But she was glad he had not asked for more than she could willingly give, for there would come a moment, she thought, when she herself would wish to give him all.