Jenny

more. You cannot imagine anything more beautiful than the west coast; it is so bleak and poor and weatherworn⁠—the grey cliffs with scraggy copse in the crevices, the woodbine, the poor little cottages, the sea, and the wonderful sky. I have made some pictures out there and people say they are good, and Lennart and I have enjoyed it so much. We are always friends now, and when he thinks I am good, he kisses me and calls me a little mermaid and all kinds of nice names, and I suppose I shall grow very fond of him in time. We are back in town again and our journey to Paris will not come off this time, but I don’t mind a bit. It seems almost heartless of me to write about it to you, for you are so much better than I, and it was so dreadfully sad that you should lose your little boy⁠—and I don’t think I really deserve to be so happy and get what I have wished for more than anything⁠—but I am going to have a baby. I have only five months to wait. I could scarcely believe it at first, but now it is certain enough. I tried to hide it from Lennart as long as possible⁠—you see, I was so ashamed of myself for having deceived him twice, and I was afraid of being mistaken. When he began to suspect it I denied it first, but I had to confess to it later. I cannot realize that I am to have a little boy⁠—Lennart says he would rather have another little Cesca, but I think he says it only to console me beforehand in case it is, for I am sure in his heart he wants a boy. However, if it is a girl, we shall be just as fond of her⁠—and once we have got one child we might get some more.

“I am so happy that I don’t mind where we are, and I don’t long for Paris. Fancy Mrs. L. asking me if I was not angry because the baby spoilt my journey abroad⁠—can you understand it from a mother of two of the handsomest boys in the world? But they are not taken the slightest notice of, except when they are with us, and Lennart says she would willingly make us a present of them. If I could afford it I would take them, so that baby would have two darling big brothers to play with when he comes. It will be such fun to show them their little cousin⁠—they call me auntie, you see. I think it is nice. But I must close now. Do you know I am very pleased also, because Lennart cannot be jealous now⁠—can he? and I don’t think he ever will be any more, for he knows quite well that I have never been really fond of anybody but him.

“Do you think it unkind of me to write so much about this to you and that I am so happy? I know you don’t grudge me my luck.

“Remember me kindly to all my friends⁠—to Gunnar first and foremost. You may tell him what I have written if you like. Every good wish to yourself and welcome to us next summer.⁠—Much love from your sincere and devoted little friend,

Cesca.

“P.S.⁠—I must add something: If it is a girl she is going to be called Jenny. I don’t mind what Lennart says. He sends his regards to you, by the way.”

Gunnar handed the letter back to Jenny, who put it in her pocket.

“I am so pleased,” she said gently. “I am glad there are some people who are happy. That feeling is something still left of my old self⁠—even if there is nothing else.”

Instead of going back to the city, they crossed the Piazza, walking in the direction of the church.

The shadows fell coal black on to the square in the moonlight. White light and night-black darkness played about ghostlike in one of the arcades. The other lay in complete obscurity but for the row of statues on top. The front of the church was in shadow, but here and there the dome glittered like water. The two fountains sent their white jets sparkling and foaming towards the moon-blue sky. The water rose whirling in the air, splashing down again to the porphyry shelves to drop and trickle back into the basin.

Gunnar and Jenny walked slowly in the shade of the arcade towards the church.

“Jenny,” he said all of a sudden, in a perfectly cool and everyday voice, “will you marry me?”

“No,” she answered after a pause, in a similar tone.

“I mean it.”

“Yes, but surely you understand that I don’t want to.”

“I don’t see why not. If I understood you rightly, you don’t value your life very highly at present, and you entertain thoughts of suicide occasionally. As you feel so inconsolable in any case, why should you not marry me? I think you might try.”

Jenny shook her head: “Thank you, Gunnar⁠—but I think it would be taxing your friendship too heavily.” She spoke in earnest. “In the first place, you ought to understand that I cannot accept it, and in the second that, if you could make me accept you as a last resource, it would not be worth your troubling to reach out one of your little fingers to save me.”

“It is not friendship.” He hesitated a little. “The truth is that I have got fond of you. It is not to save you⁠—although I would do anything to help you, of course⁠—but because I realize now that if anything happened to you I don’t know what I should do. I dare not think of it. There is nothing in the world I would not gladly do for you, because you are very dear to me.”

“Oh, Gunnar, don’t!” She stopped and looked at him almost in fear.

“I know quite well that you are not in love