“I protested that it could and would be, but she shook her head.

“‘You are very kind to me!  God bless you!’ she said.  ’You have always been kind to me.  But you do not love me.’

“I assured her I did, and in that moment I dare say I spoke the truth.  For in that moment of her reluctance and diffidence to snatch at proffered joy, when the suggestion of rejection made her appear doubly precious, she seemed to me the most adorable creature in the world.

“But still she shook her head.  ‘No one can love me,’ she said sadly.

“I took her hand in mute protestation, but she withdrew it gently.

“‘I cannot be your wife,’ she persisted.

“‘Why not, Ingeborg?’ I asked passionately.

“She hesitated, panting and colouring painfully, then—­the words are echoing in my brain—­she answered softly, ‘Jeg kan ikke elske Dem’ (I cannot love you).

“It was like a shaft of lightning piercing me, rending and illuminating.  In my blind conceit the obverse side of the question had never presented itself to me.  I had taken it for granted I had only to ask to be jumped at.  But now, in one great flash of insight, I seemed to see everything plain.

“‘You love Axel Larson!’ I cried chokingly, as I thought of all the insults he had heaped upon her in her presence, all the sneers and vile jocosities of which she had been the butt behind her back, in return for the care she had lavished upon his comfort, for her pinching to make both ends meet without the money he should have contributed.

“She did not reply.  The tears came into her eyes, she let her head droop on her heaving breast.  As in those visions that are said to come to the dying, I saw Axel Larson feeding day by day at her board, brutally conscious of her passion, yet not deigning even to sacrifice her to it; I saw him ultimately leave the schools and the town to carry his clever brush to the welcome of a wider world, without a word or a thought of thanks for the creature who had worshipped and waited upon him hand and foot; and then I saw her life from day to day unroll its long monotonous folds, all in the same pattern, all drab duty and joyless sacrifice, and hopeless undying love.

“I took her hand again in a passion of pity.  She understood my sympathy, and the hot tears started from her eyes and rolled down her poor wan cheeks.  And in that holy moment I saw into the inner heaven of woman’s love, which purifies and atones for the world.  The eternal feminine!”

The sentimental young artist ceased, and buried his devil’s face in his hands.  I looked around and started.  We were alone in the abandoned supper-room.  The gorgeously grotesque company was seated in a gigantic circle upon the ball-room floor furiously applauding the efforts of two sweetly pretty girls who were performing the celebrated danse du ventre.

“The eternal feminine!” I echoed pensively.