And here stand I. A fine old specimen, I am!
Nikolai returned with my mail; quite a little pile had accumulated in the past few weeks.
"I thought you're not in the habit of reading your letters," said Fru Ingeborg banteringly. Nikolai sat listening to us.
"No," I returned. "Just say the word, and I'll burn them unread."
Suddenly she turned pale; she had put her hand with a smile on the letters, brushing my hand as she did so. I felt a great ardor, a moment's miraculous blood heat, more than blood heat--only for a moment--then she withdrew her hand and said:
"Better read them."
She was deeply flushed now.
"I saw him burn his letters once," she explained to Nikolai. Then she found something to do at the stove, while she asked her husband about his journey, about the road, whether the mare had behaved well--which she had.
A minor occurrence, of no importance to anyone. Perhaps I should not have mentioned it.