He shook his head and set his teeth.
"But you'll come to-morrow, will you not ... to-morrow?"
He could do nothing but dumbly assent.
She bent over the edge of the sofa to look for the lost slipper, which was hidden somewhere in the wainscotting. When she sat upright, she was smiling again. The blue eyes had regained their wonted lustre, only on the round cheeks flashed in rosy drops the last traces of her tears.
"Are you angry with me?" she asked.
"Why angry?"
"Because I have made this foolish scene. But the burden of unshed tears was oppressing my soul.... And now that I have cried it away I feel more light-hearted and happier than I have done for months.... Oh, Leo ... let me thank you for the comfort you have given me!" And in her overflowing gratitude she caught his two giant hands in her soft little palms and tried to press them.
He hurriedly took his leave. It seemed as if something were hunting him from the spot. But ashamed of his haste, he turned once more at the door.
"Remember me to him," he said, looking steadily into her eyes. She nodded, and then bent her eyes on the floor.
When he had left the entrance hall, she climbed with languid steps to the top story, where from the corner balcony there was a view of the stream. She watched him hurrying thither, with her hands pressed against her forehead, and saw him unmoor the boat from the sandy bank and launch it with a mighty shove, while he jumped in and seized the oars before the fragile craft had time to drift an inch with the current. She took out her handkerchief in order to wave him farewell, but he did not look up, and the white wisp of cambric fluttered unseen in the twilight.