most blase, swarmed round her, la jeunesse doree (which is homely
enough in Norway), without an exception. A living work of art,
worth more or less money, piquante and admired, how each longed to
carry her home, to gloat over her, to call her his own!

There was surely more intensity of feeling near her than near
others, a losing of oneself in one only; that unattainable dream
of the world-weary.

With her one could lead a thoroughly stylish life, full of art and
taste and comfort. She was highly cultivated, and absolutely
emancipated--our little country did not, in those days, possess a
more alluring expression.

When face to face with her they were uncertain how to act, whether
to approach her diffidently or boldly, smile or look serious, talk
or be silent.

What these idle wooers gleaned from her stories, her
characteristic dress, her wondering eyes, and her quiet
dreaminess, was not the highest, but they expended their energy
thereon; so that their unbounded discomfiture may be imagined
when, in the autumn, the news spread that Fruken Kristen Ravn was
married to Harald Kaas.

They burst into peals of derisive laughter they scoffed, they
exclaimed; the only explanation they could offer was that they had
too long hesitated to try their fortune.

There were others, who both knew and admired her, who were no less