“Jenny—good God!—what do you mean?”
But she regretted her words already, and said hurriedly:
“Yes, my work—my art.”
Gert Gram had risen to his knees before her:
“Jenny—is there anything—particular—tell me the truth—don’t lie to me—is there anything the matter with you?”
She tried for a second to look him straight in the eyes, then bent her head. Gert Gram fell forward with his face in her lap.
“O God!—O God!...”
“Gert, dear, compose yourself. You irritated me with your talk about another. I ought not to have told you. I did not mean to let you know until afterwards.”
“I would never have forgiven you for not telling me,” said Gram. “You must have known this some time. Do you know how...?”
“Three months,” she answered shortly.