“I was not sure,” said Jenny feebly, her face turning purple. “I did not think you recognized me.” She tried to smile, but she was painfully conscious of her blushing and unsteady voice. “It was an adventure, indeed,” said Mrs. Gram. “A most peculiar coincidence.” “Have I said something wrong again?” asked Aagot when they went into the drawing-room after supper. Mr. Gram had retired to his study and Mrs. Gram had gone into the kitchen. “It is detestable in this house. You never know when there’s going to be an explosion. Please explain. I don’t understand anything.” “Mind your own business,” said Helge angrily. “All right, all right—don’t bite me! Is Aunt Rebecca jealous of Miss Winge now?” “You are the most tactless woman....” “After your mother, yes. Uncle Gert told me so one day.” She laughed. “Have you ever heard anything so absurd! Jealous of Miss Winge.” She looked inquisitively at the two others. “You need not bother about things that only concern us, Aagot,” said Helge curtly. “Indeed? I only thought—but never mind; it does not matter.” “No; it does not in the least.” Mrs. Gram came in and lit the lamp. Jenny looked almost scared at her angry face. She stood a moment, staring with hard, glittering eyes, then she bent down and picked up Jenny’s scissors, which had fallen on the floor. “It looks as if it were a speciality of yours to drop things. You should not let things slip through your fingers, Miss Winge. Helge is not as gallant as his father, it seems.” She laughed. “Do you want your lamp?...” She went into the study and pulled the door after her. Helge listened an instant—his mother spoke in a low but angry voice in the other room. “_Can’t_ you leave that wretched business alone for once?” came distinctly through the door; it was Gram speaking. Jenny turned to Helge: “I am going home now—I have a headache.” “Don’t go, Jenny. There will be such a scene if you go. Stay a little longer. Mother will only be more angry if you run away now.” “I cannot stand it,” she whispered, nearly crying. Mrs. Gram walked through the room. Gram came in and joined them. “Jenny is tired; she is going now. I will see her home.” “Are you going already? Can’t you stay a little longer?” “I have a headache and I am tired,” murmured Jenny. “Please stay a little,” he whispered to her. “She”—he indicated the kitchen with his head—“does not say anything to you, and while you are here we are spared a scene.” Jenny sat down quietly and took up her needlework again. Aagot crocheted energetically at a hospital shawl. Gram went to the piano. Jenny was not musical, but she understood that he was, and by and by she became calm as he played softly—all for her, she felt. “Do you know this one, Miss Winge?” “No.” “Nor you either, Helge? Did you not hear it in Rome? In my time it was sung everywhere. I have some books with Italian songs.” He rose to look for them; as he passed Jenny he whispered: “Do you like me to play?” “Yes.”