They explored the island thoroughly, saw the changing views, and had refreshments. Aagot beamed. The walk in the bracing air had flushed her cheeks, her lips, her ears, even her nose; her eyes were sparkling gaily. She suddenly remembered that she had almost pouted in disappointment when she saw other people; what must Irgens have thought?
"I was at first a little surprised to find so many people here," she said. "The reason was that you told me you had written some of your poems here, and I did not think you could have done that unless you had been entirely undisturbed."
How she remembered! He gazed at her exultantly and answered that he had his own restful nook where nobody ever came. It was on the other side; should they go over?
They went. It was certainly a restful place, a regular wilderness of rocks and heather and junipers, enclosed on two sides. Far in the distance could be seen a little glade. They sat down.
"So this is where you sit and write!" she exclaimed. "It is strange to think of. Were you sitting here?"
"About here. Do you know, it is refreshing to meet such a spontaneous interest as yours?"
"Tell me, how do you write your things? Do the thoughts come to you without conscious effort?"
"Yes, in a way. Things affect one pleasantly or otherwise, and the mood is there. But the trouble then is to make the words reflect the love or hate one's heart feels at the moment. Often it is useless even to try; one can never find words adequately to express that languid gesture of your hand, to define that evanescent thrill your laughter sends through one—"
Slowly the sun sank; a tremor quivered through the trees, and all was still.
"Listen," he said, "do you hear the noise boiling away yonder in the city?"