"Well, all days have not yet ended in evening," Harry says, kindly, and then pauses suddenly, feeling--he cannot tell why--that he has made a mistake.
Meanwhile, the lieutenant at the table has finished his initials, and has, moreover, embellished them with the rather crude device of a heart. He rises and saunters aimlessly about the large, low room, apparently seeking some subject for chaff, for boyish play. He kills a couple of flies, performs gymnastic exercises upon two chairs, and finally approaches the cadet, who, ensconced in a corner, behind a table, is scribbling away diligently.
"Whom are you writing to?" he asks, sitting astride of a chair just opposite the lad.
The cadet is silent.
"To your sweetheart?"
The cadet is still silent.
"I seem to have guessed rightly," says the lieutenant, adding, "But tell me, does your present flame--here the sun called Wodin--tolerate a rival sun?"
"I am writing to my mother," the cadet says, angrily. At the mention of the name of Wodin he flushes to the roots of his hair.
"Indeed!--how touching!" the lieutenant goes on. "What are you writing to her? Are you asking her for money? or are you soothing her anxiety with an account of the solid character of your principles? Do show me your letter."
The cadet spreads his arms over the sheet before him, thereby blotting the well-formed characters that cover it. "I tell you what, Stein----!" he bursts forth at his tormentor, his voice quivering with anger.