"Well--as you see," she replies, pointing to the white dress; "my thoughts are already occupied with the ball."
"What ball?" he asks, astonished.
"What a bad memory you have!" she says with an attempt at a joke. "Why, next Sunday is the rifle-fête."
"Yes, so it is."
"Perhaps you're not even looking forward to dancing with me?"
"Indeed I am!"
"Very much?--Tell me! Very much?"
"Very much!"
A child-like smile of pleasure flits across her pale, delicate face; she fingers the laces and frills, with undisguised delight at the white, airy texture.
This physical exhaustion seems to have restored to her mind its former, child-like harmlessness, and with a certain degree of anxiety she begins to enquire about her dancing shoes. She is once more, to all appearance, just the same girlishly thoughtless creature who once put out her hand with such unconstrained simple-heartedness to bid Johannes welcome.