They walk along side by side for a while in silence; she gazes into space; he smells the rose he has found.
"Do you like roses?" he continues. She looks at him. "As if you did not know that," her look says.
"By the bye," he goes on gaily, "why do you no longer put flowers at my bed-side now?"
"He has forbidden me," she stammers.
"That alters the case," he replies, crestfallen. Then their conversation comes to a standstill altogether.
On the veranda Martin receives them with a good-natured scolding. He declares he is ravenously hungry, and supper is not yet served.
Trude hurries to the kitchen to give a helping hand herself.... The meal is consumed in silence. The two do not raise their eyes from their plates. An atmosphere of unbearable sultriness oppresses the earth. The hot wind whirls up small dust clouds and bluish grey veils of mist settle down slowly.
Johannes leans his head against the glass of the veranda window, but that is as hot as if it had been all day in a fiery furnace. Then Trude suddenly jumps up.
"Where are you going to?" asks Martin.
"Into the garden," she replies.