She seated herself near the window; holding a book in her hand, she fluttered the leaves to and fro.
"The composure," thought the investigator, as he sat down, "is somewhat overdone."
"I wonder," said Miss Vale, looking at the book, "if you are an admirer of Ibsen." And as he nodded, she proceeded with a slight smile. "I know that he is scarcely the usual thing for a spring morning. But there are times when I simply can't resist him."
"He's a strong draught at any time," said Ashton-Kirk. "But his tonic quality is undoubted."
"His disciples claim that for him, at any rate," she answered. "But sometimes I question its truth. Where is the tonic effect of 'Rosmersholm?' I think it full of terrors." She shuddered and added: "The White Horses will haunt me for weeks."
"It's the atmosphere of crime," said he. "That quiet home on the western fiords reeks with it."
She made a gesture of repulsion.
"It's ghastly!" she exclaimed. "And, somehow, one feels it from the very first—before a word is spoken. Imagine Rebecca at the window, watching through the plants to see if Rosmer uses the footbridge from which his wife once leaped to her death." She paused a moment, her eyes upon the open pages; then lifting her head, she asked: "What do you think of Rebecca?"
"A tremendous character—of wonderful strength. It was just such proud, dark, purposeful souls that Byron delighted to draw; but the only one in literature to whom I can fully liken her is the wife of Macbeth. There was the same ambition—the same ruthless will—the same disregard of everything that stood in her way. And, like Cawdor's wife, she weakened in the end."
She regarded him fixedly.