easant.... And in
France, too, in the _assommoirs_, the tang of wine in the air and the
blue hue of smoke, excited Latin voices. "_Encore un bock! T'es saoul,
mon vieux! Flute! Je suis comme le Pont Neuf!_" A raucous voice singing
a political skit:

Cordieu, Madame! Que faites-vous ici?
Cordieu, Madame! Que faites-vous ici?
Je danse le polka avec tous mes amis!
Je danse le polka avec tous mes amis!

Buenos Aires, hell!

And the worst was the strange inversion of time. Here winter was, cold
streets, steely snow, garbage frozen to stone.... And in Europe was sane
June. Purple flower of the heather in Ulster, and white flower of the
bogs, and in the little bays of Antrim, men spearing flounders from
boats in the long summer evenings. And the bairns hame from school, with
a' their wee games, fishing for sticky-backs wi' pins, and the cummers
spinning. Eigh, Ulster! And in England, they punting on the Thames,
among the water-lilies. Soft Norman days, and in Germany the young folks
going to the woods.... In Buenos Aires, hell!

Within the house a cold that the little fire could only gallantly fight
against. Without, cold of wolves.

"Hedda, you come from a cold country. Tell me, is it like this in
Sweden, any time?"

She was sitting in the candle-light, doing the needlework she took such
quietness in. Her firm white hands moving rhythmically, her body steady,
her eyes a-dream. It was hard ever to think that she was--what she was.
It was hard for him to think the word now, knowing her. She looked up
and smiled.

"No, Shane, not like this. It's cold, very cold. But very beautiful. By
day the country-side is quiet, white, ascetic, like some young nun. And
at night there are lights and jollity. It is like a child's idea of
fairy-land. One wishes one were further north, where the reindeer are.
One is not enemy to the cold, as you are here. One accepts it. It has
dignity. Here it is naked, malevolent. That's the difference."

"Naked, with awful hands.... A cold that seizes...."

"Yes, Shane." She took up her work again. "Sometimes I think long until
I get back to Sweden."

"You--you are going back?"

"Of course, Shane."

"When?"

"Five, six, seven years, unless I die, or am killed. Certainly I shall
go back."

"Yes, but in five, six--hum!"

"But what, Shane?"

"I once knew a woman, Hedda. She was--as you are. Just having friends.
And she was as handsome as you are, too. She didn't have your head, you