In her triumphant mood she was more beautiful than ever. It seemed to Jörgen an act of grace when she addressed him as "thou." And she condescended no further. He went on hoping, but she gave no more—not the whole of that day. He betook himself to the piano and there poured forth his lament. Mary opened the doors, so that Mrs. Dawes might hear the music. "Poor boy!" said Mrs. Dawes.
Next day Mary did not come downstairs until it was time to set off on their expedition to Uncle Klaus's.
"You are la grande dame to-day, and no mistake!" said Jörgen, inspecting her admiringly. She was in her most elegant Parisian walking costume. "Is it to make an impression on Uncle Klaus?"
"Partly. But it is Sunday, you know.—Tell me," and she suddenly became serious; "does Uncle Klaus know about father's misfortune?"
"He knows about his illness, if you mean that."
"No; I mean the cause of it?"
"That I can't say. I came straight from home. I have told nothing—even at home."
Of this Mary approved. Consequently they were on the pleasantest, most confidential terms, both during the walk down to the steamer and on board. There they sat talking in whispers of their wedding, of furlough for the first month after it, of life in Stockholm, of her visits to him there, of his visit to Krogskogen at Christmas, of a trip to Christiania now—in short, there was not a cloud in their sky.
They found Uncle Klaus in his smoke-filled den, where they rather imagined than saw him. He himself was quite startled when Mary in all her glory appeared before him. He led them hurriedly into the large, stiff drawing-room. Even before they were seated, Jörgen said: "We have come, Uncle, to tell you—"
He got no farther, for Uncle Klaus saw in their radiant faces the news which they brought.