"How bright it is here!" she said; "it is much brighter here than elsewhere."
"Do you think so?" he answered smilingly. He walked over to the window and began to pluck from his clothes the fine, grey woolly fuzz her dress had left there. She sat still on the sofa, her eyes on the floor, blushing, arranging her hair a little. A ring flashed on each of her hands.
He could not remain there at the window so indifferently. She was beginning to notice it; she looked up; and besides, she was remarkably beautiful as she sat there fixing her hair. He stepped over to her and kissed her as warmly as he could.
"Don't kiss me, darling," she said; "be careful! Look here—it is the spring air."
She showed him a little red spot on her under lip. He asked her if it hurt, and she answered that it was not that, but she was afraid he might catch it from her. Suddenly she asked:
"Listen, can you come to Tivoli to-night? There is an operatic performance. Couldn't we meet there? Otherwise I'll die of loneliness."
He remembered that he was going to the Art Exhibition. What might happen afterward was hard to tell; he had better not promise anything. No, he said, he was afraid it would be impossible; he had made certain arrangements with Ole Henriksen.
"Oh, please—do come! I would be so proud and grateful!"
"But why in the world do you want to go to Tivoli?"
"But there is opera to-night!"