She tries to fasten it up, but suddenly she lets her arms sink, and looking directly at Erwin out of moist but not disfigured eyes, she whispers, "I cannot reach so high, and do not wish to be seen thus by my maid--it would be strange."
"Can I help you?"
She nods. Simply, but without undue haste or uneasiness, he twists the beautiful hair, fastens it firmly as one who is accustomed to perform such services. She keeps her head covered, breathes regularly, deeply, audibly--accidentally he touches her little glowing ear, then she starts. A clock strikes. "Half past ten!" cries Erwin, startled. "Good night, Baroness; poor Elsa will not know how to explain my absence," and he rushes out.
"Your horse must be saddled," says Linda, but he does not return--a few minutes later she hears him galloping rapidly away. "When he thinks of his wife he always calls me Baroness," she murmurs to herself with a peculiar smile.
An hour later Erwin knocks at his wife's door. "Who is it?" an indifferent, sleepy voice asks from within.
"I."
"Ah, you, Erwin!" Elsa unlocks the door, and comes out in the corridor, where only a single lamp breaks the darkness.
"Have you anything particular to ask me?" says she, and her feverish sparkling eyes contradict the indifferent voice.
"Nothing," he whispers, softly. "I merely could not resolve to retire without having bid you good night; I felt that you must be still awake. Do you insist upon receiving me in the corridor?" he asks, smilingly, as she has closed the door behind her.
"The baby is asleep," replies Elsa, coldly, rubbing her eyes with ostentation.