While she writes she hears hoof-beats on the road.
“My dear Sir Sunshine,” she thinks, “it is the last time.”
Baron Adrian immediately after comes into her room.
“What, Adrian, are you coming in here?” and she looks dismayed at all her packing.
He is shy and embarrassed and stammers out an excuse.
“I was just writing to you,” she says. “Look, you might as well read it now.”
He takes the letter and she sits and watches him while he reads. She longs to see his face light up with joy.
But he has not read far before he grows fiery red, throws the letter on the floor, stamps on it, and swears terrible oaths.
Marianne trembles slightly. She is no novice in the study of love; still she has not before understood this inexperienced boy, this great child.
“Adrian, dear Adrian,” she says, “what kind of a comedy have you played with me? Come and tell me the truth.”