"His father, the Amtmand, does the same," remarked Krog, laughing. "And he always picks out the daintiest morsels."

"Yes, exactly."

Mrs. Dawes sat waiting for what was to come next; for something was coming. Marit left the room; in a short time she appeared again with her hat on and a parasol in her hand.

"Are you going out?" asked Mrs. Dawes.

Marit was standing pulling on her gloves.

"I am going to order visiting-cards."

"Have you no cards?"

"Yes, but they are not suitable now."

"Why not?" said Mrs. Dawes, much surprised. "You thought them so pretty when we bought them, in Italy."

"Yes--but what I don't think suits me any longer is the name."

"The name?"

Both looked up.

"I feel exactly as if it were no longer mine."

"Marit does not suit you?" said Mrs. Dawes.

Her father added gently: "It was your mother's name."

Marit did not answer at once; she felt the dismay in her father's eyes.

"What do you wish to be called, then, child?" It was again Mrs. Dawes who spoke.

"Mary."

"Mary?"

"Yes. That suits better, it seems to me."

The silent astonishment of her companions evidently troubled her. She added:

"Besides, we are going to America now. There they say Mary."

"But you were baptised Marit," put in her father at last.

"What does that matter?"

"It stands in your certificate of baptism, child," added Mrs. Dawes; "it is your name."

"Yes, it is in the certificate, no doubt--but not in me."

The others stared.

"This grieves your father, child."

"Father is welcome to go on calling me Marit."

Mrs. Dawes looked at her sorrowfully, but said no more. Marit had finished putting on her gloves.

"In America I am called Mary. I know that. Here is a specimen card. It looks nice; doesn't it?"

She drew a very small card from her card-case. Mrs. Dawes looked at it, then handed it to Anders. Upon it was inscribed in minute Italian characters:

_Mary Krog._

Anders looked at it, looked long; then laid it on the table, took up his newspaper, and sat as if he were reading.

"I am sorry, Father, that you take it in this way."

Anders Krog said once more, gently, without looking up from his newspaper: "Marit is your mother's name."

"I, too, am fond of Mother's name. But it does not suit me."

She quietly left the room. Mrs. Dawes, who was sitting at the window, watched her going along the street. Anders Krog laid down the newspaper; he could not read. Mrs. Dawes made an attempt to comfort him.

"There is something in what she says; Marit no longer suits her."

"Her mother's name," repeated Anders Krog; and the tears fell.

THREE YEARS LATER

Three years later, in Paris, on a beautiful spring day after rain, Mary and her relation, Alice Clerc, drove down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne towards the gilded entrance gate. The two had made each other's acquaintance in America, and had met again a year ago in Paris. Alice Clerc lived in Paris now with her father. Mr. Clerc had been the princ.i.p.al dealer in works of art in New York. His wife was a Norwegian lady of the Krog family. After her death he sold his enormous business.

The daughter had been brought up in art surroundings, and her art training had been thorough. She had seen the picture-galleries and museums of all countries--had dragged her father as far as j.a.pan. Their house in the Champs Elysees was full of works of art. And she had her own studio there; she modelled. Alice was no longer young; she was a stout, strong person, good-natured and lively.

Anders Krog and his companions had this year come from Spain. The two friends were talking of a portrait of Mary which had been sent from Spain to Alice, and afterwards to Norway. Alice maintained that the artist had plainly intended to produce a resemblance to Donatello's St.

Cecilia--in the position of the head, in the shape of the eye, in the line of the neck, and the half-open mouth. But, interesting as this experiment might be, it took away from the likeness. It was, for instance, a loss to the portrait that the eyes were not seen; they were cast down, as in Donatello's work. Mary laughed. It was on purpose to have this resemblance brought out that she had sat for it.

Alice now began to talk about a Norwegian engineer officer whom she had known since the days when she went to Norway in summer with her mother.

He had seen Mary's portrait at the Clercs' house, and had fallen in love with it.

"Really?" answered Mary absently.

"He is not the ordinary man, I a.s.sure you, nor is it the ordinary falling in love."

"Indeed?"