Enters a young woman, elegantly dressed, her hair town-fashion up on her head, under a coquettish summer hat—a scornful smile plays about the corners of her mouth.
She stands hesitating a moment, as if uncertain what to say.
"Good-day," she says at last, with assumed familiarity, and taking a hasty step forward, offers her hand.
Olof scans her in silence from head to foot—surely he should know her?—and yet, who can she be…? He will not recognise her.
"Aha! You look surprised! Don't know me—don't you? Your own darling!'" She laughs harshly, contemptuously.
"Or perhaps you have seen so many others since—rowans and berries and flowers—that you can't, remember one from another?"
Olof's hand trembles, and his face turns white as the sleeves of his shirt.
The woman laughs again boldly, and flings herself on the sofa in a careless pose.
"Well, here we are again—staring at each other—what? Didn't use to stare that way, did we? What do you say?"
Olof has fallen into a seat; he looks at her, but makes no answer.