THERE is a photograph standing amongst many others on his writing-table. I hate that photo. It represents a young woman with large dark eyes, which look as if they reflected a dream of love and kisses. I dare say they are very beautiful, but they make a horrid impression on me.
Every time I have been to see him, I have longed to ask him who she is. Yet I have never done it.
But to-night I suddenly found out. He had left the room, and I stood in front of his desk, looking at the photo. I did not know that he had come back, when I suddenly heard his voice behind saying: 'Don't you think she is very beautiful?'
'I suppose she is.'
'Do you not know her? She is the well-known Mrs. Paula Hansen.'
Then I was entertained with a long rigmarole about Mrs. Paula. It seemed as though he must go on speaking about her. He was an intimate friend of hers and of her husband's, and until lately he had been a constant visitor at their house. She was so dear and charming, so clever and amusing—I have never heard him admire anybody so much, and every moment he assured me that he was 'awfully fond of her.'
Suddenly in the midst of his rhapsodies he asked smilingly, 'Surely you are not jealous of Mrs. Hansen?'
'Why should you think that?'
