"Very well," assented Astrid, "you do look done up, you poor thing!"
But she shook her head as she turned away from Ragna's door. "I don't like this business," she said to herself; "there's something wrong, she's not a bit like her old self!" She was thinking of Ragna's calm assurance and self-sufficiency in Christiania, so far removed from her present almost apologetic manner.
Ragna, alone at last, turned the key in the door; she swept to the floor the black domino laid on her bed, and flinging herself face-downward among the pillows, writhed in a frenzy of grief and shame, the fruit of long hours of suppression. It seemed to her that her very soul must be contaminated. "Oh, fool! Oh, blind fool that I was!" she moaned, and strained her arms till shoulder and elbow cracked. Suddenly she rose, and marching over to the dressing-table, gazed long and searchingly at herself in the glass. The redness and puffiness of her eyelids had disappeared during the long drive, but there were dark purple circles under the eyes, she was terribly pale and her mouth and features generally, had a hard, drawn look. "Fool!" she cried again and burying her face in her hands, began to weep. It did not last long however, she soon dashed the tears away, angrily. "It's no use crying over spilt milk!" With a sort of rage she tore off her clothes, trampling them on the floor,—were they not witnesses, accomplices almost? Then she washed, and it seemed to her that she hated her beautiful white body; all that she was, all that she had become, sickened her.
She slipped on a dressing gown and lay down on the bed, quite motionless, staring miserably into space. Nothing was left to her, nothing! If only Mirko had not been so horrible—afterwards! She shuddered and ground her teeth. Oh, the shame of it, the bitter humiliation! Her eyes burned, her throat was dry as though seared by a hot iron, her head throbbed painfully.
Presently the maid knocked and when Ragna had unlocked the door, brought in a tray with dinner, which she set on the table. She surveyed Ragna with sympathy and curiosity.
"Does not the Signorina feel well? What a pity, the night of the veglione!"
"Thank you, Rosa, I am a little tired; I daresay I shall be quite rested in an hour or so," answered Ragna bitterly.
"Shall I not bring the Signorina a glass of Marsala?"
"No, thank you," said Ragna, but the maid had already flown off and returned very quickly with a glass of the topaz-coloured wine.
"Here, drink this, Signorina, it is very good when one is tired, it will warm you up!" She was not to be denied, and to please her Ragna drained the little glass. Rosa was right, she felt it warming her veins; a tinge of colour crept to her cheeks, and she managed to swallow a little food. Then she lay down again, and what with the wine and the fatigue fell asleep, and slept until Rosa returned to help her dress.