Quicksand
always you are proper, Frøkken Helga, always.”
Helga, who had a stripped, naked feeling under his direct glance, drew herself up stiffly. Herr Olsen needn‘t, she told him, be sarcastic. She was surprised. He must understand that she was being quite sincere, quite truthful about that. Really, she hadn‘t expected him to do her so great an honor.
He made a little impatient gesture. Why, then, had she refused, ignored, his other, earlier suggestion?
At that Helga Crane took a deep indignant breath and was again, this time for an almost imperceptible second, silent. She had, then, been correct in her deduction. Her sensuous, petulant mouth hardened. That he should so frankly—so insolently, it seemed to her—admit his outrageous meaning was too much. She said, coldly: “Because, Herr Olsen, in my country the men, of my race, at least, don‘t make such suggestions to decent girls.
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