"What is that?"
"Nothing," said Johannes, in shame and confusion, like a detected child.
Marjon snatched away the handkerchief, and looked from the shining little object to Johannes with an expression of mingled pain and fright.
In silence they looked into each other's eyes a long time—Marjon with a searching, beseeching gaze, until Johannes lowered his lids and let his head droop.
"Who is it for?" she whispered. "Yourself?"
Without speaking or looking up, Johannes shook his head. Marjon sighed deeply, as if relieved.
"For whom, then?" again she asked. "For ... him?"
Johannes nodded. Then she said:
"Poor Jo!"
That sounded strangely to him, for when irritated one is not apt to be compassionate toward others nor toward one's self. He thought, rather, to find abhorrence of his blood-thirsty plan. But she said it so sincerely and fervently that he began to weaken, although not to the point of crying.