stood almost completely in the raw, icy shade; on the one side a narrow strip of sun fell on the top floor; she was pleased to think that Helge's parents lived there.
Her way to school had been along this street for four years. She knew it well—the smell shops, the black marks of snow on the plaster ornaments of the front entrances, the plants in majolica pots or coloured tissue paper in the windows, the fashion-plates against the panes at the dressmaker's, and the narrow gateway leading to dark back-yards, where small heaps of dirty snow made the air still more raw. A tramcar rolled heavily up the hill.
Close to where she stood, in the other street, was a large house with a dark yard; they had lived there when her stepfather died.
Outside a door with a brass plate, with "G. Gram" engraved on it; she stood still for a moment, her heart beating. She tried to laugh at herself for this senseless feeling of oppression each time she had to face anything new, for which she had not prepared her mind in advance. Why should she consider her future parents-in-law of such importance? They could not hurt her.… She rang the bell.
She heard somebody coming through the hall; then the door opened. It was Helge's mother; she knew her from a photograph.
"Are you Mrs. Gram? I am Miss Winge."
"Oh yes—please come in."
Jenny followed her through a long, narrow hall encumbered with cupboards, boxes, and outdoor clothes.
Mrs. Gram opened the door to the drawing-room. At this moment the sun came in, showing up the moss-green plush furniture, curtains and portiéres of the same material, and the vivid colours of the carpet. The room was small and very full—photographs and sundry fancy articles stood in every possible place.
