"I think you are right, Ragna," said Fru Bjork. "Take some quinine and cover yourself well. I shall come a little later to see if you are comfortable."
"Oh, please don't," said Ragna. "I feel quite sleepy already. I assure you there is nothing to worry about, I had rather no one came, it might wake me up."
Fru Bjork looked hurt.
"As you like," she said, and Ragna hated herself for her ungraciousness.
"Oh, why wasn't I born diplomatic?" she thought.
Astrid was looking at her rather maliciously through her lashes. The headache had not deceived her, but she had no suspicion of the truth; she thought that absence might have played advocate for some despised Christiania swain; she wondered who it might be, and promised herself that she would find out at the first opportunity.
When they rose from the table, Ragna went to her room and ostentatiously called for hot water. The others repaired to the drawing-room, where the old Swedish lady established herself with alacrity in the most comfortable armchair. A lady of uncertain nationality opened the pianoforte and played with faultless technique and absolutely no expression, selections from Beethoven and Chopin, and the rest of the company disposed themselves about the room, some reading, some sewing, some talking in small groups. Astrid withdrew to a window-recess with the art-student, with whom she had begun a mild flirtation. Fru Bjork settled herself near the fire and took out her knitting; her brow was furrowed and she puckered up her mouth. She was more worried about Ragna than she cared to admit; certainly the girl looked the picture of health, but she had been oddly absent-minded of late, and had seemed so evidently to prefer going about alone that gradually the other members of the party had given up offering to accompany her. Then her headache of this evening—.
"I do hope the child is not going to be ill," repeated the good woman to herself; she drew out a needle at the end of the row and meditatively scratched her head with it.
Ragna, meanwhile, was devoured by a fever of excitement. Unable to sit still she paced up and down her room; her hands trembled and she felt curious nervous qualms through her body. She pinned on her hat with unsteady fingers, drew on her gloves and threw a long dark cloak about her. When enough time had elapsed for all to be well settled in the drawing-room, she cautiously opened her door and locking it behind her, stole down the passage, at the end of which a chambermaid was crocheting lace by the light of an oil lamp.
"Rosa," said Ragna in a low voice, "I am going out but I don't wish anyone to know of it. If you will let me in very quietly when I come back—I shan't be late—I will give you a present. I shall knock on the door with my knuckles three times,—like this. Do you understand?"