"Because I love you, Hilda. Yes, I did it because I love you," he replied, and his accents were embarrassed.
"You love me, Herr Albert," pursued the terrible Hilda. "Yet you were kissed by mamma an hour later. Do you love her too?"
The tenor trembled and said nothing....
The girl insisted:
"Do you love mamma too? You must, for she kissed you and you did not move away."
Albert was plainly nervous.
"Yes, I love your mamma, too, but in a different way. Oh, dearest Hilda, you don't understand. I am the artistic associate of your mother. But I love—I love you."
Hilda felt the ground grow billowy; the day seemed supernaturally bright. She took Albert's arm and they walked slowly, without a word.
When the hotel was reached she motioned him not to come in, and she flew to her mother's room. The singer was alone. She sat at the window and in her lap was a photograph. She looked old and soul-weary.
Hilda rushed toward her, but stopped in the middle of the room, overcome by some subtle fear that seized her throat and limb.