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 "Nonsense, dear; I have not touched a brush for three weeks. But you will have to wash, sir."

"Have you any carbolic, in case of infection?" While he was washing his hands he said: "My father used to say that women are utterly destitute of poetry."

"Your father is quite right."

"And they can cure people by ordering cold baths," he said, with a laugh.

Jenny became suddenly serious. She went to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him: "I did not want you at my feet, Helge."

When he had gone she was ashamed of herself. He was right. She did want to give him a cold bath, but she would not do it again, for she loved him. She had played a poor part tonight. She had thought of Signora Rosa. What would she have said if anything had happened? It was rather humiliating to realize that she had been afraid of a scene with an angry signora—and tried to get out of her promise to her lover. In accepting his love and responding to his kisses she had as good as bound herself over to give him all he asked. She, of all people, would not play a game where she took everything and gave but little—not more than she could easily withdraw, if she changed her mind.

It was only nerves—this dread of something she had never tried. But she was glad he had not asked for more than she could willingly give, for there would come a moment, she thought, when she herself would wish to give him all.

It had all come so slowly and unnoticeably—just like spring in the south—and as steadily and surely. No sudden transition, no cold and stormy days that made one long desperately for the sun, for wealth of light and consuming heat. There had been none of those tremendously clear, endless, maddening spring nights of her own country. When the sunny day was past, night came quietly, the cold and darkness bringing peace-