“Jenny! Wait! Jenny!...” He hurried after her, but she was already at the stop when the tram came, and got in, leaving him without a word. VII Jenny walked listlessly about in her studio next morning and could not settle down to anything. The pouring rain was beating against the big window. She stopped to look at the wet tiles of the roofs, the black chimneys, and the telephone wires, along which the small raindrops were rolling down like pearls until they gathered into one large one and fell off, to be replaced immediately by others. She might go to her mother and the children in the country for a few days. She must go away from all this. Or she might go to an hotel in some other town and write for Helge to come and talk things over with her quietly. If they could only be together again—they two alone! She tried to think of their spring in Rome, of the silvery haze over the mountains, and of her own happiness in it all. But she could not reconstruct the picture of Helge from that time—as he had appeared to her enamoured eyes. Those days seemed already so far away; they were an isolated episode in her life, and although she knew they were a reality she could not connect them with her present existence. Helge—_her_ Helge was lost to her in the home at Welhavensgaten, and she herself could not fit in there. It seemed unthinkable that she should have anything to do with those people now and in all the time to come. Yes—Gram was right—they must go away. And she would go at once—before Helge came, asking for an explanation of her behaviour yesterday. She packed a bag, and as she was putting on her mackintosh somebody knocked at the door—again and again—she knew it was Helge. She stood absolutely still and waited till he had gone. After a while she took her bag, locked the studio, and went. Half-way down the stairs she saw a man sitting in one of the windows. It was Helge. He had seen her too, so she went down to him. They looked at each other in silence. “Why did you not open just now?” he asked. Jenny did not answer. “Did you not hear me knocking?” He looked at her bag: “Are you going to your mother?” She hesitated a little, then said: “No; I thought of going to Holmestrand for a few days and writing to you from there to come down, so that we could be together for a time without undue interference and scenes. I should like to talk matters over with you in peace and quiet.” “I am anxious to speak to you too. Can we not go up to your place?” She did not answer directly. “Is there anybody there?” he asked. Jenny looked at him: “Anybody in my studio when I have left?” “There might be somebody you do not wish to be seen with.” She turned purple in the face: “Why? How could I know that you were sitting there spying on me?” “My dear Jenny, I don’t mean to say that there was any harm in it, not on your part at least.”