“Marry you?” she said. “Do you think I am like that? Do you think I would marry the first man who comes along? Why, I don’t even know you, Gunnar Jespersen!”
“Ingeborg!” he said.
And that was all he could say. He could not tell her what he meant—that for her sake he would give up all his pride, that for her sake he was sick and ashamed. All he could do was to speak her name.
She made no answer. He waited and waited for even one word, but in vain.
“Are you—mad at me, Ingeborg?” he asked unsteadily.
“No,” replied Ingeborg quietly.
He sat up abruptly.
“I think I’ll—lose my job,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have to go away.” He thought that somehow she would understand all that he meant by that, all that he renounced. “If I have to go away somewhere, to get a job,” he went on, “promise not to marry some other fellow!”
“I don’t want to marry any one, Gunnar Jespersen.”
“Just promise to wait!”