Ingeborg wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully, and nodded her head.
"Yes, now I think of it, there was a change in her letters too--but from there to marrying this man! Do you know, Astrid, in her letter to Aunt Gitta, never once did she say that she was in love with him and that is the only thing that would explain."
Astrid was standing before the mirror, fluffing her hair; she turned at Ingeborg's last words, and set her hands on her hips.
"Ingeborg, if I were you, I'd get to the bottom of this, there's something mysterious about it."
"No," said Ingeborg, "I won't pry; if Ragna had wished me to know, she would have told me. As long as she doesn't, I wouldn't spy on her for all the world. She must have some good reason, it's not like her to fly off at a tangent!"
"If you knew more, you might be able to help her, to explain things to your Aunt."
"Yes," said Ingeborg, "that is true; I might--"
"I have an idea," said Astrid suddenly, "I shall write to the Signora Ferrati, she may be able to tell us something; you know Ragna went back to Florence with her so she must know all about it."
"Wouldn't that seem like going behind Ragna's back?" objected Ingeborg.
"Oh, I shall be careful about that. I shall just write in a friendly way and say how surprised we all were at the announcement of the marriage. And it will be only natural for her to tell how it came about, in her reply. We may find out a good deal that way, and I don't know how else. Besides she is very fond of Ragna, and wouldn't do or say anything to hurt her feelings."
"Very well," agreed Ingeborg grudgingly, "write to the Signora Ferrati, and show me her answer, when it comes. But, Astrid, you won't say anything to anybody, except just that Ragna is married, will you?"
Then they kissed each other on the cheek, and Ingeborg accompanied Astrid to the door and went to her own room, the one that had been Ragna's formerly, and sat down to compose a letter to her sister.
Fru Boyesen was writing also, a letter which she was to bitterly regret, the more so that her pride would not let her recall it or abandon the position she had taken. She felt a savage joy in wounding as she had been wounded, and re-read the finished note with the pride of an artist in his masterpiece, yet with a pang at heart.