"But even then," she said, in a low, hesitating voice. "If you were never to see me again, you would blame me for it all. You would regret."
"How can I regret that my life was made beautiful to me, if only for a time? It was worth nothing to me before. And you are forgetting all about the ring, and my promise to you."
This light way of talking did not at all deceive her. What had been torturing her all the night long was the fancy, the suspicion, that her father was sending her lover to America, not solely with a view to the work he should have to undertake there, but to insure a permanent separation between
herself and him. That was the cruel bit of it. And she more than ever admired the manliness of this man, because he would make no complaint to her. He had uttered no word of protest, for fear of wounding her. He did not mention her father to her at all; but merely treated this project of going to America as if it were a part of his duty that had to be cheerfully accepted.
"After I have once said good-bye to you Natalie" said he, "it will not be so bad for me. I shall have my work."
"When do you go?" she asked, with rather a white face.
"I don't know yet. It may be a matter of days. You will let me see you again, my darling—soon?"
"I shall be here every morning, if you wish it" she answered.
"To-morrow, then?"
"To-morrow, at eleven. Anneli will come with me. I should have waited in on the hope of seeing you this morning; but it was an old engagement with Madame Potecki. Ah, how good she is! Do you see how she pretends to be interested in those things?"