“It is no one you know. It is only a picture which reminds me of evil.”
“Take it down—shall I?”
“No, no,” she said sharply. “We are terribly in earnest,” she added, and gave a little laugh.
She went to the window and looked out. The lights were flashing, and the roar of the city came up to her.
“Good-bye,” he said, taking her hand. “Good-bye—Behüt dich Gott.”
That night Launa went to a dance, which lasted until three in the morning. She wore pink, and looked beautiful. The lust for slaughter, for conquest, for admiration entered into her. She could not love any man, she assured herself, while she knew that she thought only of Paul. But she possessed power. She could hurt, and for that one night she gloried in it. This was what the man on the steamer had meant; this was deadening; this was life and din; there was no time to think.
Mr. Wainbridge was there; she gave him one dance only, and he was angry, though he rejoiced when Mr. George said to him:—
“Launa is miserable. Her eyes are unhappy; she is feeling something.”
She had expressed herself as yearning for Norway, and that was all; but Mr. Wainbridge thought she wanted him.
The next morning she slept until it was late; she was very tired; When her letters were brought to her she did not open them. She lazily drank her tea and looked at the post-marks, wondering from whom they were. She sent a wire to her father, saying she would like to join him at once.