“Of course she does not believe the story your father told,” said Jenny timidly.—Helge sniffed.—“I wish he would tell her everything just as it happened.”
“You may rest assured he won’t do that. And you cannot do it—you must just go on pretending. It was awfully stupid of you.”
“Well—I had told you enough about things at home for you to know. You could have prevented father from coming again, and all your visits to the office—as well as the meetings in Stenersgate.”
“Meetings?—I saw the view and knew I could make a good picture of it—and so I have.”
“Yes, yes, you have. The fault, no doubt, is mostly father’s. Oh, the way he speaks of her.” Helge fumed. “You heard what he had said to Aagot—and what he said to you tonight. ‘She’”—imitating his father—“does not say anything to you! Remember it is our mother he speaks of like that.”
“I think your father is much more considerate and courteous to your mother than she is to him.”
“That consideration of father’s—I know it. Do you call it considerate the way he has won you over to his side? And his politeness—if you knew how I have suffered under it as a child, and since. He used to stand and listen very politely without saying a word, and if he spoke, it was in an icy cold, extremely civil manner. I almost prefer mother’s loud anger and scoldings. Oh, Jenny, it is all so miserable.”
“It is not all mother’s fault. Everybody prefers father. You do—quite naturally—I do myself, but I understand her being as she is. She wants to be first with everybody, and she never is. Poor mother.”
“I am sorry for her,” said Jenny, but her heart remained cold to Mrs. Gram. The air was heavy with scent from leaf and blossom as they went through the square. On the seats under the trees there was whispering and murmuring in the clear summer night.
Their solitary steps echoed on the pavement of the deserted business quarter where the tall buildings slept—the pale blue sky was reflected in the shop windows.
“May I come up?” he whispered as they stood at her entrance.
“I should like to stay a while with you—don’t you think it would be nice to be by ourselves a little?”
She said nothing, but began to walk up the stairs, and he followed.
Jenny lighted the seven-armed candlestick on her writing-table, took a cigarette, and held it to the flame: “Will you smoke?”