Olga was all unprepared for this. She was not so old and experienced as yet but that some things could put her out of countenance. “Me? No,” was all she said. “Now I think it’ll have to do as it is. I’ll just round it off a little.” She spoke gently, having some idea he must be drunk. But Rolandsen was not drunk at all; he was sober. He had been working hard of late; the gathering of strangers in the place had kept the telegraph busy. “No, don’t stop yet,” he urged. “Cut it round once more--once or twice more--yes, do.” Olga laughed. “Oh, there’s no sense in that!” “Oh, but your eyes are like twin stars,” he said. “And when you smile, it’s sunlight all round and all over me.” She took away the cloth, and brushed him down, and swept up the hair from the floor. Rolandsen bent down to help her, and their hands met. She was a maid, he felt the breath of her lips close to, and it thrilled him warmly. He took her hand. Her dress, he saw, was fastened at the throat with just an ordinary pin. It looked wretchedly poor. “Oh--what did you do that for?” she stammered. “Nothing. I mean, thank you for doing my hair. If it wasn’t for being firmly and everlastingly promised to another, I’d be in love with you this minute.” She stood up with the clippings of hair in her hands, and he leaned back. “Now your clothes’ll be all in a mess,” she said, and left the room. When her father came in, Rolandsen had to be jovial once more; he stretched out his shorn head, and drew his hat down over his ears to show it was too big for him now. Then suddenly he looked at the time, said he must get back to the station, and went off. Rolandsen went to the store. He asked to look at some brooches and pins--the most expensive sort. He picked out an imitation cameo, and said he would pay for it later, if that would do. But that would not do; Rolandsen owed too much already. Consequently, he was reduced to taking a cheap little glass thing, coloured to look like agate--this being all his few small coins would run to. And Rolandsen went off with his treasure. That was the evening before.... And now, here sits Rolandsen in his room, and cannot get on with his work. He puts on his hat and goes out to see who it might be waving branches in the wood. And walks straight into the lion’s jaws. Jomfru van Loos it was had made that sign, and she stands there waiting for him. Better have curbed his curiosity. “_Goddag!_” says Jomfru van Loos. “What on earth have you been doing with your hair?” “I always have it cut in the spring,” said he. “I cut it for you last year. I wasn’t good enough this, it seems.” “I’m not going to have any quarrels with you,” says he. “Oh, aren’t you?” “No, I’m not. And you’ve no call to stand here pulling up all the forest by the roots for everyone to see.” “You’ve no call to stand there being funny,” says she. “Why don’t you stand out down on the road and wave an olive branch?” says Rolandsen. “Did you cut your hair yourself?”