Consul Engel's house was almost the only one in the town where the door was kept closed all day. When one rang, either a man-servant or a maid opened the door, and one entered a house where there was Brussels carpet in the passages and on the stairs, as well as in the rooms, and where, to begin with, one found oneself between two mirrors where one could see oneself from head to foot.
Tora was shown upstairs. "Fröken Engel's" room was there. She was heartily welcomed. The rooms were those which Fru Engel had occupied during the last years of her life; she had very rarely left them.
She had died here, and it was for that reason that the family had gone so late into the country this year, and had only just returned to the house.
Every comfort which a room can possess was there; the chairs and couches were all as soft as the cushions of an invalid, you seemed to sink into them; they were upholstered in moss-green silk, and the curtains and portières were of the same material and colour, the walls were a dark indefinite colour. There was an old-fashioned rosewood cabinet in inlaid work, with a number of small pigeon-holes and receptacles in it. Tora never wearied of looking at it. An Erard piano with carved heads and emblems, a bookcase in the same style. Pictures, especially landscapes, which made one long for the evening sun, with its hazy light and almost sultry heat.
Tora went from one to another; she looked at every single thing as though it were a person with whom she wished to make friends. From there she went to the bedroom, and admired the soft carpet into which her feet sank, the little chaise-longue in one corner, the bed with its rich hangings, the variety and elegance of the toilette apparatus. Milla's pleasure at seeing her was expressed in the one remark that she had never before taken any one up into her mother's rooms.
There was only one piece of furniture which did not please Tora; at last she could no longer contain herself, it assorted so ill with its surroundings. "What is there in that press, dear? Why is it here?" Milla replied, smiling, that it was very incongruous, she knew; it had not been there before--in fact, it was her own; she had had it ever since she was a child.
"But can't it stand in another place?"
"No, not very well."
There was something of reserve in this answer, she could not inquire further. As Tora was leaving Milla asked her to come again soon, but she had better let her know beforehand, so that they might be alone--that would be the pleasantest. Tora understood that this was meant for Anna Rogne, but that was no affair of hers.
It so chanced that the next time she sat telling stories in the twilight to Nora and her friends, who for convenience had settled themselves on the floor on some carpets and eider-downs, she let fall the remark, that "Of all the people I know, the one who is most like Gulnare is Milla Engel." This, to her audience, was much like saying before the king that he was not the wisest man in the kingdom. Nora was amazed, her friends almost broke out into open anger. Tora felt that she had done a foolish thing; she tried to explain herself by ascribing that "passive" beauty to Milla which was here implied. The expressions active and passive were at that time war cries in the senior class; there were "active" people and "passive" people, "active" eyes and "passive" eyes, "active" and "passive" colours.