The conversation stretched out for half an hour without Franka’s being able to muster courage to direct it to the subject which was uppermost in her mind. They talked about the late count, about the life at the Sielenburg, about what had happened since that time, but not a word was said about what both were thinking. Each was regarding and studying the other as they talked, and each might have observed that their thoughts were not on what they were saying.
Franka’s eyes rested inquisitively on Chlodwig—had he written the letters or not? His exterior appearance seemed changed; was he unprepossessing? Had she ever really thought him so? And yet certainly no one could call him handsome; his clean-shaven face was too lean, his chin too long, his lips too thin; but if he was decidedly not handsome, his features were certainly interesting. Franka also noticed something which she had not observed at Sielenburg: Chlodwig had particularly expressive hands—narrow, white, well cared for, not at all effeminately soft—on the contrary, quite powerful; and everything which their possessor said was emphasized by these hands with quick and peculiarly vivacious gestures; these were aristocratic hands, full of character.
Chlodwig also contemplated his companion. Franka seemed to him slightly altered. The somewhat childlike expression which had formerly characterized her features, and which even now came evanescently into them when she smiled, had given way to a more serious and energetic expression—she seemed to him more womanly, more mature.
After half an hour Chlodwig got up: “I fear that I have stayed too long. Accept my thanks again, Fräulein Franka, and permit me to say good-bye.”
“No, no, sit down again; I have something else that I want to talk with you about.”
Helmer obeyed. A short pause ensued.
Franka was trying to find the right words to begin with. Then with sudden resolution: “Did you write me two letters?”
Chlodwig’s cheeks grew red as fire. “Yes,” he answered.
“I knew it.”
“Forgive the form which....”