"Ah, Böhnke, I've no time now, I'm in a great hurry. Good-bye, let me go--let me go, I say." With a stamp of her foot she pulled away the hand which he had seized.
But she did not get rid of him so easily. "One moment. Surely you've got a moment to spare for me?"
As she did not listen, but continued to hasten on, he ran beside her. How troublesome he was, if only she could get rid of him. What did he want with her? Why did he force himself upon her in this way? Heaven forfend that he should return to the farm with her. She was furious; the spring evening was already drawing to a close, Martin would have returned from the fields, and now he belonged to her. And this fellow took upon himself to hinder her.
"I've not seen you for ages," stammered Böhnke. "It's so difficult to catch a glimpse of you."
"That's your fault, Mr. Böhnke," she answered lightly, and shrugged her shoulders. "You could have come more frequently, you know."
"You used to invite me formerly."
"Well, I do invite you." She gave a mocking laugh. "Do you, perhaps, expect me to write you a note every day saying, 'Come'? Come, for goodness sake. You can come whenever you feel inclined."
"I don't feel inclined," he answered bitterly. "How could I feel any inclination to come to Starydwór? But something drags me there all the same. I must come, and that's what is so awful, so awful!"
He shouted the last word in a loud voice, and his eyes, that were generally so dull, glittered as he looked at her.
Ah, so now he was going to reproach her. She slackened her pace involuntarily; there was no necessity for anybody else to hear it. But if he thought that she feared him--pooh! he made a great mistake. What on earth could frighten her now? Nothing whatever, and nobody, if only she could see Martin every day.