“Yes ... yes, no doubt. We are old, Adelheid. As old as can be.”
“Is that what you wanted to say to me?”
“I am afraid for Finn,” said Cordt. “He will come home as pale as when he went away, a poor dreamer by the grace of God. To-morrow, he will be sitting up there and staring out at the life he dare not live.”
“Yes ... why should he be up in the old room?”
“It was he who asked me,” said Cordt, calmly. “I could not deny him his inheritance. He has the right to know the ground he sprang from.”
“And what then? Do you think you can bring the dead days to life again?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think that. I don’t want that.”
He was silent for a little. She did not take her eyes from his face. Then he said:
“Finn can build himself a new house, if he likes. Or he can refurnish his ancestral halls. And put in plate-glass windows and wide staircases and anything that suits him and his period. But he must know and be thankful that the walls are strong and the towers tall.”