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 "Let me look at you, Jenny—oh, how lovely you are! At home they believe I am in Berlin. I am going to an hotel for the night. I mean to stay a few days in town before telling them. Won't it be fun! It is a pity you live at home now. We could have been together all day."

"When you knocked I thought it was your father coming."

"Father?"

"Yes." She felt a little embarrassed; it seemed suddenly so difficult to explain the whole thing to him. "You see, your father came one day to call, and he has been to tea sometimes in the afternoon. We sit and talk about you."

"But, Jenny, you never wrote a word about it; you have not even mentioned that you had met father."

"No; I preferred to tell you. You see, your mother does not know about it; your father thought it better not to mention it."

"Not to me?"

"Oh no, we never meant that. He believes most likely that I have told you. It was only your mother who was not to know. I thought it was—well, I did not like to write you that I had a secret from your mother. You understand?"

Helge was silent.

"I did not like it myself," she continued. "But what could I do? He called on me, you see, and I like him very much. I am getting quite fond of your father."

"Father can be very attractive, I know—and then you are an artist, too."

"He likes me for your sake, dear. I know it is so."

Helge did not answer.

"And you have only seen mother once?"

"Yes—but are you not hungry? Let me give you something to eat."

"No, thanks. We'll go out and have supper somewhere together."