Her love for him seemed to grow with the weakness of her body. She could not bear him to leave her alone for any length of time, and while he was writing, sat near him, so that she might have her head against his shoulder or touch his hand, or kiss it. It was not conducive to easy writing or the invention of plots.
Something like a crisis happened after a painful scene in the drawing-room downstairs on a day when Brand had gone out to walk off a sense of deadly depression which prevented all literary effort.
Several ladies had come to tea with Lady Brand and Ethel, and they gazed at Elsa as though she were a strange and dangerous animal.
One of them, a thin and elderly schoolmistress, cross-questioned Elsa as to her nationality.
“I suppose you are Swedish, my dear?” she said sweetly.
“No,” said Elsa.
“Danish, then, no doubt?” continued Miss Clutter.
“I am German,” said Elsa.
That announcement had caused consternation among Lady Brand’s guests. Two of the ladies departed almost immediately. The others stayed to see how Miss Clutter would deal with this amazing situation.
She dealt with it firmly, and with the cold intelligence of a high schoolmistress.