VIII
Her dinner did not take long. She tried to read a paper to divert her mind for a moment, but it was no good. She might just as well go home and sit there.
On the upper landing a man stood waiting. He was tall and thin. She took the last steps running, calling out Helge’s name.
“It is not Helge,” came the answer. It was his father.
Jenny stood breathless before him, stretching out her hands: “Gert—what is it?—has anything happened?”
“Hush, hush!” He took her hand. “Helge has gone—he went to Kongsberg on a visit to a friend—a schoolfellow of his who lives there. Were you afraid, child, that something else had happened?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“My dear Jenny—you are quite beside yourself.”