“You are not in love with him.”
“Oh, Ilse, I don’t know. He simply can’t understand me. I feel so bruised and tired after a controversy with him. He seems to be so merciless to my opinions––so violent–––”
“You poor child.... After all, Palla, freedom also means the liberty to change one’s mind.... If you should care to change yours–––”
“I can’t change my inmost convictions.”
“Those––no.”
“I have not changed them. I almost wish I could. But I’ve got to be honest.... And he can’t understand me.”
Ilse smiled and kissed her: “That is scarcely to be wondered at, as you don’t seem to know your own mind. Perhaps when you do he, also, may understand you. Good-bye! I must run–––”
Palla watched her to the foot of the stairs; the door closed; the engine of a taxi began to hum.
Her telephone was ringing when she returned to the living room, and the quick leap of her heart averted her of the hope revived.
But it was a strange voice on the wire,––a man’s voice, clear, sinister, tainted with a German accent: