Quicksand
happy.” He had wanted to make an end of this fruitless wet conversation.
Helga had made another little dab at her face with the scrap of lace and raised shining eyes to his face. She had said, with sincere regret: “You‘ve been marvelous to me, you and Aunt Katrina. Angelic. I don‘t want to seem ungrateful. I‘d do anything for you, anything in the world but this.”
Herr Dahl had shrugged. A little sardonically he had smiled. He had refrained from pointing out that this was the only thing she could do for them, the only thing that they had asked of her. He had been too glad to be through with the uncomfortable discussion.
So life went on. Dinners, coffees, theaters, pictures, music, clothes. More dinners, coffees, theaters, clothes, music. And that nagging aching for America increased. Augmented by the uncomfortableness of Aunt Katrina‘s and Uncle Poul‘s disappointment with her, that tormenting nostalgia grew to an un-
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