“Nobody?” There was, Fru Dahl asserted, Captain Frederick Skaargaard—and very handsome he was too—and he would have money. And there was Herr Hans Tietgen, not so handsome, of course, but clever and a good business man; he too would be rich, very rich, some day. And there was Herr Karl Pedersen, who had a good berth with the Landmands-bank and considerable shares in a prosperous cement-factory at Aalborg. 12 There was, too, Christian Lende, the young owner of the new Odin Theater.13 Any of these Helga might marry, was Aunt Katrina’s opinion. “And,” she added, “others.” Or maybe Helga herself had some ideas.

Helga had. She didn’t, she responded, believe in mixed marriages, “between races, you know.” They brought only trouble—to the children—as she herself knew but too well from bitter experience.

Fru Dahl thoughtfully lit a cigarette. Eventually, after a satisfactory glow had manifested itself, she announced: “Because your mother was a fool. Yes, she was! If she’d come home after she married, or after you were born, or even after your father—er—went off like that, it would have been different. If even she’d left you when she was here. But why in the world she should have married again, and a person like that, I can’t see. She wanted to keep you, she insisted on it, even over his protest, I think. She loved you so much, she said.—And so she made you unhappy. Mothers, I suppose, are like that. Selfish. And Karen was always stupid. If you’ve got any brains at all they came from your father.”

Into this Helga would not enter. Because of its obvious partial truths she felt the need for disguising caution. With a detachment that amazed herself she asked if Aunt Katrina didn’t think, really, that miscegenation was wrong, in fact as well as principle.

“Don’t,” was her aunt’s reply, “be a fool too, Helga. We don’t think of those things here. Not in connection with individuals, at least.” And almost immediately she inquired: “Did you give Herr Olsen my message about dinner tonight?”

“Yes, Aunt.” Helga was cross, and trying not to show it.

“He’s coming?”

“Yes, Aunt,” with precise politeness.

“What about him?”

“I don’t know. What about him?”

“He likes you?”

“I don’t know. How can I tell that?” Helga asked with irritating reserve, her concentrated attention on the selection of a sandwich. She had a feeling of nakedness. Outrage.

Now Fru Dahl was annoyed and showed it. “What nonsense! Of course you know. Any girl does,” and her satin-covered foot tapped, a little impatiently, the old tiled floor.