* * * * * “Your people don’t know about it yet?” Helge asked. “No,” said Jenny. “At first, when I was sending all my letters to your home address, did your mother never ask who wrote to you like that every day?” “No. My mother is not that kind.” “_My_ mother,” repeated Helge hotly. “You mean to say that mother would have done so—that she is tactless. I don’t think you are just to my mother—surely, for my sake, you ought not to speak like that of her.” “Helge! What do you mean?” Jenny looked at him, astonished. “I have not said a word about your mother.” “You said, _my_ mother is not like that.” “I did not. I said my _mother_.” “No; you said _my_ mother. You may not like her—although I cannot see what reason you have so far not to—but you should remember that you speak about _my_ mother, and that I am fond of her as she is.” “Oh, Helge! I don’t understand how....” She stopped, as she felt tears filling her eyes. It was so strange a thing for Jenny Winge to shed tears that she felt ashamed of it, and was quiet. But he had seen it: “Jenny, my darling, have I hurt you? Oh, my own girl—what a misery it is! You can see for yourself—no sooner have I come back, but it begins again.” He clenched his hands and cried: “I hate it—I _hate_ my home!” “My darling boy, you must not say so. Don’t let it upset you like that.” She took him in her arms. “Helge, dearest, listen to me—what has it to do with us?—it cannot make any difference in us”—and she kissed and petted him till he stopped crying and shivering. V Jenny and Helge were sitting on the sofa in his room, silent, with arms encircled. It was a Sunday in June; Jenny had been for a walk with Helge in the morning and had dined at the Grams’. After dinner they all sat in the drawing-room, struggling through the tedious afternoon, until Helge got Jenny into his own room on the pretext of reading her something he had written. “Ugh!” said Jenny at last. Helge did not ask why she said it. He only laid his head in her lap and let her stroke his hair; neither spoke. Helge sighed: “It was nicer at your place in the Via Vantaggio, was it not?” The sound of plates and of fat spluttering in a pan came from the kitchen. Mrs. Gram was getting supper. Jenny opened the window wide to let out the smell that had penetrated into the room. She stood a moment looking out on the yard. All the windows were kitchen or bedroom windows with blinds half drawn, except one large one in each corner. Ugh! How well she knew those dining-rooms with a single corner window looking on to the yard, dark and dismal, with never a glimpse of sun. Soot came in when one aired the rooms, and the smell of food was permanent. The playing of a guitar came from a servant’s room, and a high soprano voice was singing a doleful Salvation Army hymn.