"You know—everything?" he asked.
"Everything, lieber Junge. Hildegarde knows, Johann knows, the cook knows. I should not be surprised if the very sparrows make it a subject of their chattering. And you can go about with that stern face and mysterious, close-shut mouth and think you have deceived us all! Oh, Wolff, Wolff!"
"You are laughing at me," he said. "God knows I am in deadly earnest."
She took his hand between her own.
"If I laugh at you it is because I must," she said; "because it is the only thing to do. There are some forms of quixotic madness which it is dangerous to take seriously, and this is one of them. Wolff, you have tortured yourself with an uncalled-for remorse until you are ready to throw your own life and the lives of others into a huge catastrophe. In all this, have you thought what it might mean to Nora?"
He started, and the colour ebbed out of his face, leaving it curiously pale and haggard.
"I think of her day and night," he said hoarsely. "I pray God that she does not know—that I shall pass out of her life and leave no trace behind me."
"You believe that that is possible? You deceive yourself so well? You pretend you do not love Nora, and you do not know that she loves you?"
"That I love her? Yes, I know that," he confessed desperately. "But that she loves me—how should I know?"
"Any one would know—you must know." She put both her hands on his shoulders and looked him firmly in the face. "Wolff, if you were honest you would admit it. You would see that you have acted cruelly—without intention, but still cruelly."