“Aren’t you coming to bed?” she asked.
“Oh, wait a little!” he said, still standing as before.
“Yes, but I’m getting cold, Henry.”
He was actually afraid of letting her go, as if she were the happy conscience he had now built up, which felt like a deliverance from something terrible.
“I think I’ll go out for a little,” he said at last. “I shan’t be able to sleep anyhow.”
“Don’t be out too long!” she said. “Remember I’m lying here alone.”
Of course he would not be long. But she was anxious nevertheless; for he was always “only going out for a little” when it ended at the consul’s, and he came home a little unsteady in his gait.
Wangen set out with his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. The hard snow creaked beneath his feet, and above the snowy hills and dark ridges was spread a wide, brilliant, starry sky.
“Thank goodness!” thought Wangen, “that eight-hours’ working-day probably has nothing to do with the failure.” And he involuntarily felt as if a lost ideal had been regained, so that he had a beloved, bright idea for the future to believe in. From this his thoughts passed insensibly to Norby and the other rich men, who sat brooding over their money-bags, suspicious of everything new, fearful of everything, averse to all improvement of the condition of the lower classes.