worshipped.

* * * * *

I miss Margarethe Ernst; especially her amusing ways. How she glided
about among people, always ready to dart out her sharp tongue, always
prepared to sting. And yet she is not really unkind, in spite of her
little cunning smile. But her every movement makes a singular impression
which is calculated.

We amused each other. We spoke so candidly about other people, and lied
so gracefully to each other about ourselves. Moreover, I think she is
loyal in her friendship, and of all my letters hers are the best
written.

I should have liked to have drawn her out, but she was the one person
who knew how to hold her own. I always felt she wore a suit of chain
armour under her close-fitting dresses which was proof against the
assaults of her most impassioned adorers.

She is one of those women who, without appearing to do so, manages to
efface all her tracks as she goes. I have watched her change her tactics
two or three times in the course of an evening, according to the people
with whom she was talking. She glided up to them, breathed their
atmosphere for an instant, and then established contact with them.

She is calculating, but not entirely for her own ends; she is like a
born mathematician who thoroughly enjoys working out the most difficult
problems.

I should like to have her here for a week.

She, too, dreads the transition years. She tries in vain to cheat old
age. Lately she adopted a "court mourning" style of dress, and wore
little, neat, respect-impelling mantillas round her thin,
Spanish-looking face. One of these days, when she is close upon fifty,
we shall see her return to all the colours of the rainbow and to ostrich
plumes. She lives in hopes of a new springtide in life. Shall I invite
her here?

She would come, of course, by the first train, scenting the air with
wide nostrils, like a stag, and an array of trunks behind her!

No! To ask her would be a lamentable confession of failure.

* * * * *

The last few days I have arrived at a condition of mind which occasions
great self-admiration. I am now sure that, even if the difference in our
ages did not exist, I could never marry Malthe.

I could do foolish, even mean things for the sake of the one man I have
loved with all my heart. I could humble myself to be his mistress; I
could die with him. But set up a home with Joergen Malthe--never!

The terrible part