“I didn’t ask them,” said Sigrid, blushing.
“And I think Torvald had some engagement,” said Swanhild, unconsciously coming to the rescue.
“You have been out a long time, Swanhild; now run away to your practicing,” said Fru Grönvold, in the tone which the child detested. “Come in here, Sigrid, I want a word with you.”
Fru Grönvold had the best of hearts, but her manner was unfortunate; from sheer anxiety to do well by people she often repulsed them. To Sigrid, accustomed from her earliest girlhood to come and go as she pleased and to manage her father’s house, this manner was almost intolerable. She resented interference most strongly, and was far too young and inexperienced to see, beneath her aunt’s dictatorial tone, the real kindness that existed. Her blue eyes looked defiant as she marched into the sitting-room, and drawing off her gloves began to warm her hands by the stove.
“Why did you not ask Torvald Lundgren to come in?” asked Fru Grönvold, taking up her knitting.
“Because I didn’t want to ask him, auntie.”
“But you ought to think what other people want, not always of yourself.”
“I did,” said Sigrid quickly. “I knew he didn’t want to come in.”
“What nonsense you talk, child!” said Fru Grönvold, knitting with more vigor than before, as if she vented her impatience upon the sock she was making. “You must know quite well that Torvald admires you very much; it is mere affectation to pretend not to see what is patent to all the world.”
“I do not pretend,” said Sigrid angrily, “but you—you have encouraged him to hope, and it is unfair and unkind of you. He told me you had spoken to him.”