He lifted his head: “Are you vexed with me?” he said in a low voice. “No, not vexed.” “What, then?” “Nothing—only....” “Only what?” “Tonight”—she hesitated—“when we walked here, you said we would go somewhere alone—some other day. It was not as it was in Rome; now it is you who decide what I must do and not do.” “Oh no, Jenny.” “Yes—but I don’t mind; I like it so. I only think that, if such is the case, you ought to help me out of all this trouble.” “You don’t think I did help you today?” he asked slowly. “Ye—s. Well, I suppose there was nothing you could do.” “Shall I go now?” he whispered after a pause, drawing her close to him. “Do as you wish,” she said quietly. “You know what I wish. What do you wish—most?” “I don’t know what I want.” She burst into tears. “Oh, Jenny darling.” He kissed her softly time after time. When she recovered herself he took her hand: “I am going now. Sleep well, dear; you are tired. You must not be cross with me.” “Say good-night nicely to me,” she said, clinging to him. “Good-night, my sweet, beloved Jenny.” He left, and she fell to crying again. VI “These are the things I wanted you to see,” said Gert Gram, rising. He had been on his knees, looking for something on the lower shelf of his safe. Jenny pushed the sketch-books aside and pulled the electric lamp nearer. He wiped the dust from the big portfolio and placed it before her. “I have not shown these to anybody for a great many years, or looked at them myself, but I have been wanting you to see them for some time—in fact, from the day I called on you at your studio. When you came here to look at Helge’s picture I meant to ask you if you cared to see them, and all the time you were working close by here I had it in my mind. “It is strange to think, Jenny, that here in this little office I have buried all my dreams of youth. There in the safe they lie like corpses in their tomb, and I myself go about a dead and forgotten artist.” Jenny said nothing. Gram sometimes used expressions that were rather too sentimental, she thought, although she knew that the bitter feelings which dictated them were real enough. In a sudden impulse she bent forward and stroked his grey hair. Gram bowed his head as if to prolong the slight caress—and without looking at her, untied the portfolio with trembling hands. She realized in surprise that her own hands shook as she took the first sheet from him, and she felt a strange fear and oppression at heart, as of a danger threatening. She was suddenly afraid when she realized that she did not want anybody to know of her visit and that she dared not tell Helge about it. At the mere thought of her lover she became depressed; she had long since consciously stopped analysing her real feelings for him. She did not want to heed the foreboding that crossed her mind at this moment, not to let herself be disturbed by inquiring into Gert Gram’s feelings for her.