Then both were silent again.
At last the printer, pausing before the case of ladies' shoes and gazing into it as intently, as if he were endeavoring to count each individual pair, said:
"You're fortunate, Fräulein Reginchen. You can stay in this house. I--I must--from to-day I shall--"
"Are you going away on a journey, Herr Franzelius?"
"No, Fräulein Reginchen, or rather yes!--it amounts to the same thing. I--I'm glad I've met you--I should like--I didn't want to leave without a farewell--"
"Are you going away for long?"
"No one can tell--perhaps I shall never return. Fräulein Reginchen, I cannot hope--you know I--I have always revered you--"
She laughed again in her merry childish way; but if the shop had not been so dark and he had looked at her, he would probably have noticed the deep blush that suffused her face. "Oh gracious!" she exclaimed. "Revered! No one ever did that before. A stupid creature like me, who can't do anything and doesn't understand anything, as mother tells me every day--"
"You don't know your own worth, Reginchen, and that's the best proof of it--I mean that it's no false worth. But excuse me for telling you this so bluntly: It's the first--and last time. And of course you--if I don't come back--will never give me another thought."
The prudent child seemed to know that silence is sometimes the best answer. She coughed several times, and then said: "Where are you going?"