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 of home life is that every piece of furniture in the house forms a link in the chain which binds two married people long after love has died out—­if, indeed, it ever existed between them.  Two human beings—­who differ as much as two human beings always must do—­are compelled to adopt the same tastes, the same outlook.  The home is built upon this incessant conflict.  The struggle often goes on in silence, but it is not the less bitter, even when concealed.

How often Richard and I gave way to each other with a consideration masking an annoyance that rankled more than a violent quarrel would have done....  What a profound contempt I felt for his tastes; and, without saying it in words, how he disapproved of mine!

No!  His home was not mine, although we lived in it like an ideal couple, at one on all points.  My person for his money—­that was the bargain, crudely but truthfully expressed.

* * * * *

Just as one arranges the scenery for a tableau vivant, I prepared my “living grave” in this house, which Malthe built in ignorance of its future occupant.  And here I have learnt that joy of possession which hitherto I have only known in respect of my jewellery.

This house is really my home.  My first and only home.  Everything here is dear to me, because it is my own.

I love the very earthworms because they do good to my garden.  The birds in the trees round about the house are my property.  I almost wish I could enclose the sky and clouds within a wall and make them mine.

In Richard’s house in the Old Market I never felt at home.  Yet when I left it I felt as though all my nerves were being torn from my body.

Joergen Malthe is the man I love; but apart from that he is a stranger to me.  We do not think or feel alike.  He has his world and I have mine.  I should only be like a vampire to him.  His work would be hateful to me before a month was past.  All women in love are like Magna Wellmann.  I shudder when I think of the big ugly room where he lives and works; the bare deal table, the dusty books, the trunk covered with a travelling rug, the dirty curtains and unpolished floor.

Who knows?  Perhaps the sense of discomfort and poverty which came over me the day I visited his rooms was the chief reason why I never ventured to take the final step.  He paced the carpetless floor and held forth interminably upon Brunelleschi’s cupola.  He sketched its form in the air with his hands, and all the time I was feeling in imagination their touch upon my head.  Every word he spoke betrayed his passion, and yet he went on discussing this wretched dome—­about which I cared as little as for the inkstains on his table.