“Thanks!”
The evening developed even further intimacy. And Erna soon came to realize that she had discovered her new sensation. As for Nielsen, he was spending an unusual evening too. Several times, he thought of Jimmy Allen and his connection with Erna. He was a splendid joyous animal like her. It did not surprise him that he had been restored to her favor, they were so well mated. And he recalled the short but significant scene he had spoiled that morning.
Erna, surely, was a rare nature,—hard, perhaps, selfish and cruel in many ways too, quite a little more so than others, but her strength of will, self reliance and her stubborn pursuit of pleasure and excitement—her life of joy—were irresistible. And she was only a waitress. But she was far more than that, an individual, as Carstairs had vaunted that time; she had lived a life harder to endure than that loaded upon his educated acquaintances, for example, and yet, she, lacking their knowledge and so called experience and wisdom, controlled life; life did not control her. And Nielsen, who seldom overlooked dissecting himself along with others, admitted readily that Erna attracted him powerfully, and not in the name of the story, which he had forgotten—for the present, anyhow.
Erna’s mind was making more rapid calculations than ever before. “Stick to your freedom!” he had advised her. It was true. She must go on fighting for that. But what of Jimmy—and marriage? Marriage, that word with a bad taste, marriage even with Jimmy would steal a good portion of her freedom. She must be careful. Besides, her power over Jimmy was so easy just the same. And Nielsen, that puzzling human man, disconcerted her. He was different from Jimmy. He was strong physically too, if not quite as handsome, and he possessed a strong heart and mind, which Jimmy did not. But his constant joking—was he really serious? She never knew just where to find him, he eluded her so. If she were to marry, she would never see him again, a prospect her greediness did not like to consider, as she sat there slyly watching him, clothed in that easy, cheerful, even-tempered strength of his.
Erna and Nielsen did not leave the latter’s workshop until close upon midnight. The rest of the time had passed swiftly and pleasantly. Their parting was warm to a decided degree. And they made an appointment for the following Friday evening.
“I’ll be a night owl soon,” she complained.
“Oh no—you’ll always be a Rat-wife,” he corrected.
She pressed the book under her arm—Ibsen’s “Little Eyolf,” which he had lent her—and laughed.
“Now, don’t forget my text,” he warned her gently, as they stood on the dark street corner near Landsmann’s, their hands clasped in friendly embrace.
“I won’t.”