Vaguely I gazed at her, at the innkeeper, then at my traps in the corner. It was apparent that I was an intruder. I struck my forehead in anger and despair. Triple fool that I was! I was nothing to her. She had told me so, and I had not believed.
"Yes; why?" asked the innkeeper, turning around.
"I believe," said I, my voice trembling, "that I am an unwelcome guest.
Is it not so?"
"Oh, as for that," said the innkeeper, observing Gretchen, "this is a public inn, on the highway. All wayfarers are of necessity welcome."
"Go, then, and prepare me a supper," said I. "I am indeed hungry, having journeyed far." I wanted him out of the room.
The innkeeper appeared not to have the slightest intention of leaving the room to do my bidding.
"Yes, Hermann," said Gretchen, coloring, "go and prepare Herr
Winthrop's supper."
"Thank you," said I, with a dismal effort to be ironical.
The innkeeper, a puzzling smile on his lips, passed out.
"Gretchen," I burst forth, "in heaven's name what does this mean? I have hunted for you day after day, week after week, month after month. I have traveled the four ends of the continent. I have lived—Oh, I do not know how I have lived! And when I do find you, it is for this!" My voice broke, and I was positively on the verge of tears.