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“Why have you not gone to bed? You will be cold up
here.” He fetched her shawl from the summer-house and
handed it to her, sitting down between the flower-pots on the
top of the wall. They sat quietly staring at the city and the
church domes that seemed floating in the moonlit mist. The
outlines of distant hills were completely obliterated.
Jenny was smoking. Gunnar lit a cigarette.
“I can hardly stand anything now, it seems — in the way
of drink, I mean. It affects me at once,” she said
apologetically.
He understood that she was quite herself again.
“I think you might leave it off altogether for a time, and
not smoke — at least not so much. You know you have
complained of your heart.”
She did not answer.
“I know that you agree with me about those people, and I
cannot think how you could condescend to associate with them
— in the way you did.”
“One is sometimes in need of — well, of a narcotic,” she
said quietly. “And as to condescending ...” He looked
into her white face; her fair fluffy hair shone in the moonlight.
“Sometimes I think it does not matter, though now — at this
moment — I feel ashamed, but then I am extraordinarily sober
just now, you see,” she said, smiling. “I am not always,
although I have not taken anything, and in those moments I feel
ready for any kind of revels.”
“It is dangerous, Jenny,” he said, and again after a pause:
“I think it was disgusting tonight — I cannot call it anything
else. I have seen something of life; I know what it leads to.
I would not like to see you come down and end as something
like Loulou.”
“You can be quite easy in your mind about me, Gunnar. I
am not going to end that way. I don’t really like it, and I
know where to stop.”
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