She sat and listened, with open mouth, pale, frightened, her shining eyes completely bewildered. I desired to make it good again, to disperse the sad impression I had made, and I pulled myself up. “Well, it is all over now!” I said; “there can be no talk of such a thing happening again; I am saved now....” But she was much dispirited. “The Lord preserve me!” was all she said, then kept silent. She repeated this at short intervals, and kept silent after each “the Lord preserve me.” I began to jest, caught hold of her, tried to tickle her, lifted her up to my breast. She had buttoned up her frock again. This irritated me not a little--indeed, downright hurt me. Why should she button up her frock again? Was I more unworthy in her eyes now, than if I had myself been instrumental in causing the falling out of my hair? Would she have thought more of me if I had made myself out to be a _roué_?... No nonsense now; ... it was just a matter of going at it; and if it was only just a matter of going at it, so, by the living.... I laid her down--simply laid her down on the sofa. She struggled quite feebly, by-the-way, and looked astonished. “No; ... what do you want?” she queried. “What do I want?” Ha! she asked me what I wanted. Go at it was what I wanted--go right at it. It was not only from a distance that I was able to go at it. That was not the sort and condition of man I was--I would have to prove I was not the sort of fellow to be trifled with, and not to be snubbed by a frown. No, no, forsooth; I had never yet gone forth from such an affair as this without having effected my purpose ... and I went at it. “No! ... no, but...?” “Yes, rather; that was just my intention.” “No; do listen!” she cried, and she added these hurtful words, “I can’t be sure that you are not insane!” I checked myself involuntarily, and I said: “You don’t mean that!” “Indeed, God knows I do! you look so strangely. And the forenoon you followed me--after all, you weren’t tipsy that time?” “No; but I wasn’t hungry then, either; I had just eaten....” “Yes; but that made it so much the worse.” “Would you rather I had been tipsy?” “Yes ... ugh ... I am afraid of you! Lord, can’t you let me be now!” I considered a moment. No, I couldn’t let her be. No damned nonsense late in the evening on a sofa. “Off with that petticoat!” Ha, what odd excuses one could hit upon in such a moment, as if I didn’t know it was just half-coyness, mock modesty all the time. I would indeed be green! “There, be quiet! No bosh! Live king and country!” She fought and struggled against me with unusual strength--far too strongly to only do so from coyness. I happened, as if inadvertently, to knock over the light, so that it went out. She made a despairing struggle--gave vent at last to a little whimper. “No, not that--oh, not that! If you like, you may rather kiss me on my breast, oh, dear, kind....”