She had been standing silent and thoughtful by the window—now she approached him with hesitant step.
"Olof," she murmured, her voice quivering with tender anxiety—"Olof—dearest, what does it mean?"
"Dearest?" He snapped out the word between clenched teeth like the rattle of hail against a window-pane. His voice trembled with tears and laughter, cutting scorn and bitterness. He grasped her roughly by the shoulders.
"Keep away!" he cried, boiling with rage, and thrust her from him with such violence that she stumbled and sank down on a sofa.
There she sat in the same position, struck helpless by the suddenness of the blow. Then she rose and, flushing slightly, walked resolutely up to him again.
"Olof, what does all this mean?" she asked. There was tenderness still in her voice, but beneath it a steely ring plain to be heard.
Olof felt his blood boiling in his veins—that she, guilty as she was, should dare to stand there with uplifted head, and look him calmly in the face! His eye fell on the myrtle wreath which she wore—emblem of bridal purity—and it seemed to mock him anew. He felt an almost irresistible impulse to fall on her and tear her in pieces.
"It means," he cried, stepping threateningly towards her, "that you have no right to wear that wreath—that you are an infamous cheat!"
And with a violent movement he tore the wreath and veil from her head, and trampled them underfoot, till the wires of the framework curled like serpents on the floor. "Liar—liar and hypocrite!" he cried.
Kyllikki did not move; she stood there still silent, only the red flush in her cheeks deepened.