Did you come here for—for my sake?
Arnholm.
Yes, I did, Boletta. I got a letter from your father this spring—and in it was a phrase which led me to believe—h’m—that you had kept your former tutor in—in a little more than friendly remembrance.
Boletta.
How could father say such a thing?
Arnholm.
It appears that was not what he meant at all. But in the meantime I had accustomed myself to the thought that here was a young girl waiting and longing for me to come again.—No, you mustn’t interrupt me, dear Boletta! And, you see,—when a man, like myself, is no longer in the first flush of youth, such a belief—or illusion—makes an exceedingly strong impression. A vivid—a grateful affection for you grew up within me. I felt I must come to you; see you again; tell you that I shared the feelings which I imagined you entertained for me.
Boletta.
But now, when you know that it was not so! That it was a mistake!
Arnholm.