Daniel then held the letter above the chimney of the lamp, waited until it had caught fire, and then threw it on the floor, where it burned up.
“It is late, and father is already waiting,” said Eleanore, after they had eaten in great haste.
“I will take you home,” declared Daniel. Surprised by such unusual gallantry, Eleanore looked at him with amazement. He at once became moody; she was still more surprised. “I can go home alone, Daniel,” she said in a tone of noticeable seriousness, “you do not need to put yourself out for me.”
“Put myself out? What do you mean? Are you one of those people who can’t keep a tune, and step on the pedal when their sentiment runs short?”
Eleanore had nothing to say.
“Put your great coat on, Daniel,” said Gertrude in the hall, “it is cold and windy out.”
She wanted to help him on with it, but he threw it in the clothes press; he was irritated.
He walked along at Eleanore’s side through the deserted streets.
She had already put the key in the front door, when she turned around, looked up in a most unhappy way, and said: “Daniel, what in the world is the matter with you? When I look at you, a feeling of anguish and distress comes over me. What have I done that you should act so disagreeably toward me?”
“Oh, forget it, think about something else, don’t mention the subject any more,” said Daniel, in a rough, rude voice. But the glance she fixed on him was so stern and unpitying, so testing and so un-girl-like, so strong and so bold, that he felt his heart grow softer. “Let us take a little walk,” he said.