"Yes, much more. Can you not put up with it for my sake? Hang it all, you are not obliged to be in the midst of it always, or to live and work there!"
He was right, she thought, and reproached herself for not being patient enough. He, poor boy, had to live and work in a home she could scarcely endure for two hours. He had grown up in it and lived his whole youth in it.
"I am horrid and selfish, Helge." She clung to him, tired, worried, and humiliated. She longed for him to kiss her and comfort her. What did it really matter to them? They had each other, and belonged somewhere far away from the air of hatred, suspicion, and anger in his home.
The scent of jessamine was wafted from the old gardens that still remained.
"We can go off by ourselves another day—just you and I," he said, to comfort her. "But how could you be so silly?" he said suddenly. "I cannot understand it. You ought to have known that mother would get to know it—as sure as anything."
"Of course she does not believe the story your father told," said Jenny timidly.—Helge sniffed.—"I wish he would tell her everything just as it happened."
"You may rest assured he won't do that. And you cannot do it—you must just go on pretending. It was awfully stupid of you."
"I could not help it, Helge."
"Well—I had told you enough about things at home for you to know. You could have prevented father from coming again, and all your visits to the office—as well as the meetings in Stenersgate."
"Meetings?—I saw the view and knew I could make a good picture of it—and so I have."
"Yes, yes, you have. The fault, no doubt, is mostly father's. Oh, the way he speaks of her." Helge fumed. "You heard
