Quicksand
Another knocking. Aunt Katrina entered, smiling at Helga‘s quick, lithe spring from the bed. They were going out to tea, she informed Helga. What, the girl inquired, did one wear to tea in Copenhagen, meanwhile glancing at her aunt‘s dark purple dress and bringing forth a severely plain blue crêpe frock. But no It seemed that that wouldn‘t at all do.
“Too sober,” pronounced Fru Dahl. “Haven‘t you something lively, something bright?” And, noting Helga‘s puzzled glance at her own subdued costume, she explained laughingly: “Oh, I‘m an old married lady, and a Dane. But you, you‘re young. And you‘re a foreigner, and different. You must have bright things to set off the color of your lovely brown skin. Striking things, exotic things. You must make an impression.”
“I‘ve only these,” said Helga Crane, timidly displaying her wardrobe on couch and chairs. “Of course I intend to buy here. I didn‘t want to bring over too much that might be useless.”
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