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more and more unendurable, and I realized that I could not go
on. I am fond of you, Gert, but I cannot go on only taking
when I can give you nothing that is real.”
“Is this what you wanted to tell me yesterday?” asked Gert
after a pause.
She nodded.
“And instead....”
Jenny turned scarlet.
“I had not the courage. You were so happy to come, and
I saw that you had been longing and waiting.”
He raised his head quickly: “You should not have done it.
No, you should not have given me—alms.”
Her face was turned away; she remembered the painful hours
of yesterday in her hot, stuffy studio, hurriedly dusting and
tidying to receive him, her heart aching with sorrow; but she
did not care to tell him:
“I did not quite know myself — when you came. I thought
for an instant — I wanted to make sure.”
“Alms.” He moved his head as if in pain. “It was alms
all the time, then — what you gave me.”
“But, Gert, don’t you understand that it is just what I have
accepted from you — alms — always?”
“No,” he said abruptly, lying face downwards again. After
a little he lifted his head:
“Jenny, is there any one else?”
“No,” she replied, vexed at the thought.
“Don’t think I would reproach you if there had been another
— a young man — your equal; I could understand that easier.”
“You don’t seem able to realize — I don’t think there need
be another.”
“Perhaps not. It seemed to me more likely, and, remembering
what you wrote about Heggen being at Tegneby and going
to Berlin....”
Jenny blushed deeply:
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