It was growing dusk. A damp and misty evening, with a thin, reddish light behind the mist and cold feet and dripping roofs. The snow on the square had melted into slush. The fountain was silent, covered with boards and pine-faggots.
He sat down again and read. He stood up, looked at his watch, went to the window, walked up and down the floor and sat down again. He lit a cigar and let it go out. He went away and came back in an hour and began all over again.
A little before midnight, the carriage drove in through the gateway and, five minutes later, Fru Adelheid stood in the room, tall and white, with large eyes.
“Have you enjoyed yourself, Adelheid?”
She could hear that he did not care to know and she did not answer:
“I am freezing,” she said.
She drew her chair close up to the fire, nestled into it and put her feet on the fender.
“They asked after you, Cordt.”
“I daresay.”
He turned over the leaves of his book a little, then closed it and drew his chair beside hers. He sat resting his cheek in his hand and looked tired.