“I must point out to all here that this is either a mistake or a lie. I have never so much as thought of giving the boatman five _daler_ for your shoe. I ought to have done so, perhaps, but up to now it has not been done.” “Whereupon we shall continue the dance,” she said, frowning. “Why aren't we dancing?” “She owes me an explanation of this,” I said to myself, and watched for an opportunity to speak with her. She went into a side room, and I followed her. “_Skaal_,” I said, and lifted a glass to drink with her. “I have nothing in my glass,” she answered shortly. But her glass was standing in front of her, quite full. “I thought that was your glass.” “No, it is not mine,” she answered, and turned away, and was in deep conversation with someone else. “I beg your pardon then,” said I. Several of the guests had noticed this little scene. My heart was hissing within me. I said offendedly: “But at least you owe me an explanation...” She rose, took both my hands, and said earnestly: “But not to-day; not now. I am so miserable. Heavens, how you look at me. We were friends once...” Overwhelmed, I turned right about, and went in to the dancers again. A little after, Edwarda herself came in and took up her place by the piano, at which the travelling man was seated, playing a dance; her face at that moment was full of inward pain. “I have never learned to play,” she said, looking at me with dark eyes. “If I only could!” I could make no answer to this. But my heart flew out towards her once more, and I asked: “Why are you so unhappy all at once, Edwarda? If you knew how it hurts me to see--” “I don't know what it is,” she said. “Everything, perhaps. I wish all these people would go away at once, all of them. No, not you--remember, you must stay till the last.” And again her words revived me, and my eyes saw the light in the sun-filled room. The Dean's daughter came over, and began talking to me; I wished her ever so far away, and gave her short answers. And I purposely kept from looking at her, for she had said that about my eyes being like an animal's. She turned to Edwarda and told her that once, somewhere abroad--in Riga I think it was--a man had followed her along the street. “Kept walking after me, street after street, and smiling across at me,” she said. “Why, was he blind, then?” I broke in, thinking to please Edwarda. And I shrugged my shoulders as well. The young lady understood my coarseness at once, and answered: “He must have been blind indeed, to run after any one so old and ugly as I am.” But I gained no thanks from Edwarda for that: she drew her friend away; they whispered together and shook their heads. After that, I was left altogether to myself. Another hour passed. The seabirds began to wake out on the reefs; their cries sounded in through the open windows. A spasm of joy went through me at this first calling of the birds, and I longed to be out there on the islands myself...