She jumped to her feet as if startled out of a dream, wiped her forehead and cheeks, and tried to laugh--two or three times--short, abrupt little laughs, like before--and then she burst out crying, and cried as if her heart would break. I jumped up and went over to her. I should have liked to put my hand on her head, too, but I lacked the courage. I asked her if something was troubling her and whether she would not confide in me, and so on. "Oh, I'm the most miserable creature on earth," she sobbed. "Why?" "I want to do something--something horrible--and I haven't got the courage to." "Well, well, what is it?" "I can't tell you! I can't tell you!" That was all I could get out of her, though I did my best to persuade her to confide more in me. But gradually her expression changed and grew gloomier and more set. And finally she said in a suppressed voice as if to herself: "I want to go away--I want to run away." "Good Lord, with whom?" I asked, completely taken aback. She shrugged her shoulders. "With whom? Nobody. There's nobody here who takes up for me--not even the shepherd boy. But I must go away. I'm stifling here--I have nothing to hope for here. I shall perish. And as there's nobody to come and take me away, I'm going to go off by myself." "But, my dear young lady," I said, "I understand you're a trifle bored at Krakowitz. It's a bit lonely--and your father kicks up a row with all the neighbours. But if you would consent to marry. A woman like you need only crook her little finger." "Oh, nonsense! Empty words. Who would want me? Do you know anybody who wants me?" My heart beat frightfully. I didn't mean to say it--it was madness--but there, it was out! I told her I wanted to prove to her that I for my part was not talking empty words--or something of the sort. Because even after that I could not screw up my courage--God knows--to make love to her regularly. She shut her eyes and heaved a deep sigh. Then she took hold of my arm and said: "Before you leave, Baron, I want to confess something, so that you should not be under a wholly wrong impression. My father and mother are not asleep. When they heard your carriage coming up the drive, they locked themselves in their room--that is, mother did not want to, but father forced her to. Our being here together is a preconcerted plan. I was to turn your head, so that you should ask me to marry you. Ever since your first visit here both of them, both father and mother, have been tormenting me, father with threats, mother with entreaties, not to let the chance slip, because an eligible party like you would never turn up again. Baron, forgive me. I didn't want to. Even if I had loved you, oh, ever so much, that would have disgusted me with you. But now that this is off my conscience, now I am willing. If you want me, take me. I am yours."