"Yes. It's very nice," she said, without looking round. She began to clasp her hands and pull them apart again till the tips of her gloves projected beyond her finger tips. She was in a state of great excitement. "Perhaps _now_ I've done something you'll approve of?" she said, suddenly pulling off her glove. She had a ring on her finger. "Good," I said. It didn't affect me immediately; I was to understand more later, and merely asked: "Are you engaged?" "Yes," she replied. And she looked at me with a smile, though her mouth shook. I looked back at her, and I believe I said something like, "Well, now, well, well!" Then I nodded in a fatherly fashion, bowed formally, and said: "My heartiest congratulations!" "Yes, that's what it's come to," she said. "I think it was the best thing to do. Perhaps you think it's a bit unreliable of me or rash or--well, don't you?" "Oh, I don't know--" "But it was absolutely the best thing. And I just thought I'd tell you." I got up. She started, evidently in a very nervous state. But I had only risen to turn down the lamp behind her, which had begun to smoke. A pause. She said nothing more, so what could I say? But as the minutes passed and I saw she was distressed, I said: "Why did you want to tell me this?" "Yes--why did I?" "Perhaps for a moment you thought you were the center of the world again, but--" "Yes, I expect so." She looked about her with great, roving eyes. Then she got up; she had been sitting all this time as though about to spring at me. I rose, too. An unhappy woman--I saw that plainly enough; but good heavens, what could I do? She had come to tell me she was engaged, and at the same time looked very unhappy. Was that a way to behave? But as she got up, I could see her face better under her hat--I could see her hair--the hair that was beginning to show silken and silver at the temples--how beautiful it was! She was tall and handsome, and her breast was rising and falling--her great breast--what a great breast she had, rising and falling! Her face was brown, and her mouth open, just a little open, dry, feverishly dry-- "Miss Ingeborg!" It was the first time I called her this. And I moved my hand toward her slightly, longing to touch her, perhaps to fondle her--I don't know-- But she had collected herself now, and stood erect and hard. Her eyes had grown cold; they looked at me, putting me in my place again, as she walked toward the door. A cry of "No!" escaped me. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Don't go, not yet, not at once; sit down again and talk to me more." "No, you're quite right," she said. "I'm not the center of the universe. Here I come to bother you with my unimportant troubles, and you--well, of course, you're busy with your extensive correspondence."