The window was open. There were flowers in it and there was a bird which hopped from perch to perch in its cage, silently and unceasingly. Behind the flowers sat a young girl sewing. He could see the back of her and a bit of her chin and hear the stitching of the sewing-machine:
“Look,” he said, in an undertone.
Hans came up and at once looked away again:
“That’s Marie,” he said. “She’s a seamstress.”
There was nothing wrong either in the words or in the tone in which they were uttered. But he said it so loud and so carelessly that it hurt Finn. The girl opposite looked up and smiled.
Then something like a cloud passed over the whole picture, with the flowers and the bird and the sunny roofs. Finn sighed and came away from the window.
And, when they sat together at supper and had finished eating, suddenly there fell upon him an insuppressible melancholy.
He looked from one to the other and read in their faces that they were subduing their gladness on his account. He imagined what it was like when the three were alone, busy and cheerful in their work and in their faith in one another.
And behind their kind words and smiles he felt the pity for their quiet guest. But he thought of this only as pity for Cordt and of himself as one who suffered blame.
Then he hurriedly took his leave.