Egidio had had a run of bad luck and had sold no pictures for some time and the expenses of Ragna's confinement had been a heavy drain on his resources. As week after week passed, bringing no sign from Fru Boyesen, he grew impatient, although he had told himself to expect nothing for some time. The confinement had cost more than he expected, and he thought that Ragna's family might have helped him out, though realizing at the same time the absurdity of the idea, as they could and must know nothing of the birth of a child for some months to come. He grew moody and taciturn, and without speaking directly on the subject, gave Ragna to understand that her faulty diplomacy was to blame for their discomfort. This bewildered her, as she had even yet, no inkling of his real motive in marrying her. She withdrew more and more into herself, realizing as time went on, how vain had been the hopes of a friendly comradeship on which she had founded her expectations of married life. Egidio no longer cared to talk with her about his work and his interests, and when she proposed a visit to his studio and a resumption of her lessons, he received the suggestion with such coldness and evident lack of pleasure, that she let the subject drop and never revived it again. He nearly always spent the evenings out now and when, by chance, he remained at home, his sour, forbidding expression and the aura of gloom that hung about him, effectually choked any conversation. Ragna felt a distinct relief in his absence for Carolina's cheery song rang out unreproved in the kitchen, little Egidio, or "Mimmo," as they called him, cooed and prattled in his crib--the whole household, in fact, seemed to stretch its cramped limbs and breathe freely, relieved of the oppressive presence of the master.