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remembered it at all. Yet, to please him, she wrote of a
longing which did not exist — yes, she had been feigning, feigning
all the time before his honest passion.
There was a time when she had not been a hypocrite, or
if she had lied to Gert she had also lied to herself. She had
felt a storm in herself; it was perhaps pity for him and his
fate and rebellion against her own — why should they both be
harried by a longing for something impossible? — and in the
growing anxiety for where it all would lead, she had rejoiced
that she loved him, for she was forced to fall into the arms
of this man, however mad she knew it to be.
She would sit in the tram when she left him of an evening,
looking at all the sleepy, placid faces of the people, and
rejoicing that she came from her lover — that he and she were
whirled by the tempest of their fate. They had been driven
into it and did not know where they were going, and she was
proud of her fate because unhappiness and darkness
threatened.
And now she was sitting here only wishing for it to end,
planning a journey abroad to escape from it all. She had
accepted a invitation to stay at Tegneby with Cesca to prepare the
break. It was better for Gert that he was alone — if she could
manage to end the life between them now, she could have done
him some good.
Two young women were sitting opposite her. They were
probably not older than she, but stupefied by a few years of
marriage. Three or four years ago they had no doubt been a
couple of neat office girls, who dressed attractively and sported
with their admirers in Nordmarken. She knew the face of one
of them, now she thought of it; she had seen her at Hakloa one
Easter. Jenny had noticed her then because she was such a
good ski-runner and looked so brisk and smart in her
sport-suit. In a way she was not badly dressed now either; her
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