If Ragna could have brought her news in person, her presence, her affectionate manner would have had a very different effect. Aunt Gitta might have raged and stormed but the mere presence of her favourite niece, once the first shock was over, would have influenced her insensibly and outweighed her prejudice. If the letter had even been a tender pleading one--but poor Ragna, sore from her disillusionment, filled with hatred and disgust for herself and her surroundings, yet obliged to justify those same surroundings, and give some explanation of her reasons for her hurried marriage, had not been able to break through the false crust of formality. So much had, of necessity, to be concealed, so much left unexplained, that try as she would, her letter lacked the compelling note of genuine feeling, and seemed hard, cynical, almost insolent, in fact. If she had frankly opened her heart to her aunt, and had thrown herself on the good woman's mercy, the appeal would have had its effect after Fru Boyesen's horror and indignation had had time to cool, but poor Ragna, half from shame and despair, half from the desire to spare her family the inevitable sorrow entailed by a disclosure, had not been able to bring herself to a frank confession. Even if Fru Boyesen had had insight enough to enable her to read between the lines of that poor inadequate letter,--but to her a word was a word, a sentence, a sentence, meaning just so much and no more, and all that she saw, was a high-handed disregard of her feelings and an impervious ingratitude for all the benefits she had conferred. It wounded her vanity not to have had her consent considered essential or even desirable. Her feelings were wounded, but they would have recovered--what are wounded feelings compared to a hurt sense of self-importance? So she hardened her heart. Left together, Astrid and Ingeborg sat silent, neither wishing to be the first to speak, though Astrid was curious to learn all that she could of Ragna's extraordinary marriage. She reviewed in her mind the months spent in Italy, she remembered Ragna's long absences in Rome, and the half-formed suspicions they had aroused in her, then she called to mind her friend's changed demeanour in Florence, in Venice, her pallor, her lack of spirits. She remembered Ragna's feverish interest in her work, but not in her teacher, and the more she thought the more mystified did she become. "She does not love Valentini," Astrid reflected, "at least she did not at that time, and it is not in the least like her to rush into a piece of folly like this. No, there must be something behind it all." Ingeborg had fallen forward, her arms crossed on the table, her face hidden, weeping silently; Astrid went round the table to her, and laid a caressing hand on her shoulder. "Don't cry, Ingeborg dear." The girl raised her tear-stained countenance. "Oh, Astrid, we shall never see her any more." "What foolishness!"