Fru Boyesen, who in ordinary circumstances would have resented anything savouring of commiseration, but who felt too perplexed to think of anything beyond her present difficulty, presently afforded an opening, by remarking that though a few months abroad would probably benefit Ragna and bring her to a more reasonable frame of mind, yet the thing was impossible; who was there to take her? Fru Boyesen herself had no desire to set forth on a journey, too many interests and occupations kept her at home. Fru Bjork then suggested that Ragna be entrusted to her care. "I have been thinking," she said, "of taking Astrid to spend the winter in Italy. The doctor advises it--she is just a little delicate, you know,--and why should not Ragna come too? She would be company for Astrid and such a serious, steady girl as she is would give me no trouble--I should enjoy having her with me." Fru Boyesen, secretly much pleased by her friend's proposition, would not seem to seize upon it at once; she agreed to think it over, and the ladies parted on that understanding. CHAPTER X Ragna was now almost twenty-one; she had slightly matured in appearance, the curves of her figure were rounder and fuller, but her eyes still had the expression of the idealist, the visionary; she was as prone as ever to credulity, to taking those with whom she came in contact at their own valuation. She had resolutely tried to put the Prince Mirko episode out of her mind, but with slight success. She had locked Angelescu's sketch of him away in her writing-case, and rarely allowed herself to look at it, but she knew it was there, she felt its occult presence as at times she still felt the presence of Mirko's lips on hers. When, by chance, she came upon his name in the newspapers the blood would rush to her heart. Once an illustrated journal had published a portrait of him, accompanied by a short biographical sketch, and she cut the page out, and laid it away with her sketch. She had never heard from her dream-hero directly, but each New Year's day brought her a card from Count Angelescu--He, at least, still remembered her! She was at a loss to explain the restlessness that often possessed her. More often than she dared confess to herself, her work and her studies bored her; in vain did she try to throw herself entirely into her serious occupations; emptiness, the vanity of it all, would in spite of her efforts, rise up and confront her.