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that she had flung away as she had the gloves. It was not hers
any more.
She gave a start on hearing Heggen mount the stairs slowly
and open his door. He walked up and down in his room,
then came out again and went up the stairs to the roof. She
heard him pacing to and fro above her head. She was sure he
knew, but it did not make much impression on her tired brain.
She felt no pain now. It seemed to her that he would
probably think what had happened as natural and unavoidable as
she did. She could not decide what was the next thing to do—it
must just come as the other had done, as a necessary
consequence of her opening the door last night to Helge.
She put out one foot from under the cover and lay looking at
it. It was pretty. She bent it, accentuating the instep. Yes,
it was pretty, white with blue veins and pink heel and toes.
She was tired—it was nice to feel so utterly tired. It felt
like having recovered from some keen suffering. She was
tired now, and what she had to do she did mechanically.
She got up and dressed. When she had put on stockings,
bodice, and a skirt she slipped her feet into a pair of bronze
slippers, washed, and did her hair in front of the glass without
noticing the reflection of her face in it. Then she went to the
small table where she kept her painting things, looking for
the box containing her implements. In the night she had been
thinking of the small triangular scraper,—she had sometimes
played with it, putting it against her artery.
She took it out, looked at it, testing it with her finger, but
she put it back again and took out a folding knife that she
had once bought in Paris. It had a corkscrew, tin-opener, and
many blades; one was short, pointed, and broad. She opened it.
She went back to her bed and sat down on it. Putting her
pillow on the table at the side of the bed, she steadied her
left hand on it and cut through the artery.
The blood spurted out, hitting a small water-colour on the
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