On account of the injury to his foot, Frans Röy had to keep quiet for some days. The first time he called on Alice, Mary, according to agreement, was sent for. But she felt so strangely agitated that she dared not go. Next time curiosity, or whatever the feeling was, brought her. But she came late, and hardly had she looked him in the face again before she wished that she had not come. There was an intensity about him which the fine lady felt to be intrusive, almost insulting. Her whole being was like a surging sea; she followed him with her eyes and with her ears; her thoughts were in a whirl, and so was her blood. This must pass over soon, she thought. But it did not. Alice's entrancement--love, to call it by the right name--audible and visible in every word, every look, added to her confusion. Was he really so ugly? That broad, upright forehead, these small, sparkling eyes, the compressed lips and projecting chin, produced in conjunction an impression of unusual strength; but the face was made comical by there being no nose to speak of. Very comical, too, was most of his conversation. He was in such high spirits and so full of fun and fancies that the rattle never ceased. His manners were not overbearing; on the contrary, he was politeness itself, attentive, at times quite the gallant. What overpowered was his forcefulness. Force spoke in his voice and glanced from his eyes. But the body, too, played its part--the strong hand, the small, foot, compact, the shoulders, the neck, the chest--these spoke too, they insisted, they demonstrated. One could not escape from them for a moment. And the talk never ceased. Mary was unaccustomed to any style of conversation except that of international society--light talk of wind and weather, of the events of the day, of literature and art, of incidents of travel--the whole at arm's length. Here everything was personal and almost intimate. She felt that she herself acted upon Frans like wine. His intoxication increased; he let himself go more and more. This excited her too much; it gave her a feeling of insecurity. As soon as politeness allowed of it, she took leave, nervous, confused, as a matter of fact in wild retreat. She promised herself solemnly that she would never go back again. Not until later in the day did she join her father and Mrs. Dawes. She did not say a word about her meeting with Frans Röy. Nor had she done so on the previous occasion. Mrs. Dawes told her to look at a visiting-card which was lying on the table. "Jörgen Thiis? Is he here?" "He has been here all winter. But he had only just heard of our arrival." "He asked to be remembered to you," put in Anders, who was, as usual, sitting reading.