She is calculating, but not entirely for her own ends; she is like a
born mathematician who thoroughly enjoys working out the most difficult
problems.

I should like to have her here for a week.

She, too, dreads the transition years. She tries in vain to cheat old
age. Lately she adopted a "court mourning" style of dress, and wore
little, neat, respect-impelling mantillas round her thin,
Spanish-looking face. One of these days, when she is close upon fifty,
we shall see her return to all the colours of the rainbow and to ostrich
plumes. She lives in hopes of a new springtide in life. Shall I invite
her here?

She would come, of course, by the first train, scenting the air with
wide nostrils, like a stag, and an array of trunks behind her!

No! To ask her would be a lamentable confession of failure.

* * * * *

The last few days I have arrived at a condition of mind which occasions
great self-admiration. I am now sure that, even if the difference in our
ages did not exist, I could never marry Malthe.

I could do foolish, even mean things for the sake of the one man I have
loved with all my heart. I could humble myself to be his mistress; I
could die with him. But set up a home with Joergen Malthe--never!

The terrible part of home life is that every piece of furniture in the