And Irgens agreed; she was pretty. But she didn't have one only dimple; there was only one who had that….
Aagot glanced at him quickly; his voice thrilled her; she closed her eyes. The next instant she felt that she was bending toward him, that he kissed her. Neither spoke; all her fears were lulled; she ceased to struggle and rested deliciously in his arms.
And nobody disturbed them. The wind soughed through the trees; it hushed and soothed…. Somebody came along; they rushed apart and kept their eyes on the gravelled walk while he passed. Aagot was quite equal to the occasion; she did not show the slightest trace of confusion. She got up and began to walk away. And now she began to think; the tears were dripping from her long lashes, and she whispered, dully, despairingly:
"God forgive me! What have I done?"
Irgens wanted to speak, to say something that would soften her despair. It had happened because it had to happen. He was so unspeakably fond of her; she surely knew he was in earnest…. And he really looked as if he were greatly in earnest.
But Aagot heard nothing; she walked on, repeating these desperate words. Instinctively she took the way down toward the city. It seemed as if she were hurrying home.
"Dearest Aagot, listen a moment—"
She interrupted violently:
"Be quiet, will you!"
And he was silent.