Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Part one - VIII
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like a young faun in spring-time, and Francesca let herself be
kissed, and laughed and called him a silly boy.
But Jenny was afraid, though not of him. She dared not
kiss his hot, red mouth, for the sake of something intangible,
intoxicating, frivolous, which would last only while they were
there amid sun and anemones — something irresponsible. She
dared not put aside her old self; she felt that she could not take
a flirtation light-heartedly, and neither could he. She had
already seen enough of Gunnar Heggen to know that in his
affairs with other women he was such as they were — and yet
not quite — for in his inmost self he was a good man, much
better than most women are. His infatuation had soon turned
into friendship, and during the lovely, peaceful time in Paris,
when they had worked hard, and afterwards out here, it had
grown stronger and stronger.
It was quite a different matter with Gram. He did not
arouse any adventurous fancies or wild longings in her. He
was not at all stupid, as she had thought at first; it was only
that he seemed almost stunted, checked in mental growth, when
he came out here, and she at least ought to have understood it.
There was something gentle and young and sound about him,
which she liked — he seemed more than two years her junior.
His talk of being in love with her was nothing but a surplus of
the joy he felt at the freedom of his new life. There was no
danger in it, either for him or for her. They were fond of her
at home, of course, and Gunnar and Francesca were fond of
her too, but did any one of them think of her tonight? She
was not altogether sorry to know that there was some one who
did.
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