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“Nonsense, dear; I have not touched a brush for three weeks.
But you will have to wash, sir.”
“Have you any carbolic, in case of infection?” While he
was washing his hands he said: “My father used to say that
women are utterly destitute of poetry.”
“Your father is quite right.”
“And they can cure people by ordering cold baths,” he said,
with a laugh.
Jenny became suddenly serious. She went to him, put her
hands on his shoulders, and kissed him: “I did not want you
at my feet, Helge.”
When he had gone she was ashamed of herself. He was
right. She did want to give him a cold bath, but she would
not do it again, for she loved him. She had played a poor part
tonight. She had thought of Signora Rosa. What would she
have said if anything had happened? It was rather humiliating
to realize that she had been afraid of a scene with an angry
signora — and tried to get out of her promise to her lover. In
accepting his love and responding to his kisses she had as good
as bound herself over to give him all he asked. She, of all
people, would not play a game where she took everything and
gave but little — not more than she could easily withdraw, if she
changed her mind.
It was only nerves — this dread of something she had never
tried. But she was glad he had not asked for more than she
could willingly give, for there would come a moment, she
thought, when she herself would wish to give him all.
It had all come so slowly and unnoticeably — just like spring
in the south — and as steadily and surely. No sudden transition,
no cold and stormy days that made one long desperately
for the sun, for wealth of light and consuming heat. There
had been none of those tremendously clear, endless, maddening
spring nights of her own country. When the sunny day was
past, night came quietly, the cold and darkness bringing
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