“All right; I shall be merciful; say on then.”
“You will really not be angry?”
“No, no. What is it?”
“Quite by accident—I discovered—you see—I know who, last St. Nicholas’ Eve——”
He turned a little pale, whilst he stared at her, full of eager expectation. It did not escape her with how much concentrated attention he was listening.
“Gave—that fan—to Eline—that fan by Bucchi.”
She remained standing right in front of him, something like a naughty child, quite confused at her confession. He continued looking at her, a little frightened, with big, staring eyes.
“Do you know?” he commenced, stammering.
“Now don’t be angry,” she resumed. “I really could not help it. I came into your room one morning, I wanted a piece of sealing-wax, and—you have never forbidden me to come into your room, have you?—I knocked, but you had gone out; and when I entered and began to look for the sealing-wax, I saw in that pigeon-hole the leather case, which I recognized at once in the evening. I thought at first it was something for me, and wanted—wanted to open it; you know how inquisitive I am; but I did not do so, and I was very sorry that I discovered your present. Tell me, now, are you angry? I couldn’t really help it, could I now?”
“Angry, my dear old girl! ’Tis nothing to be angry about at all,” he answered, with forced lightness. “A surprise gift cannot last for ever; and besides—you haven’t told Eline, of course, have you?”