There was, however, no outward manifestation, deep and passionate though that struggle may have been. It is true that we met each other almost every day, but nearly always in the company of the children, and if it happened that we arranged to meet alone, we had never more time to spare than perhaps half an hour. By this time his attitude towards me had entirely changed. The touch of scorn and sarcasm that had confused and irritated me at the beginning of our acquaintance had turned into gravity and thoughtfulness. I on my part displayed much pride and coolness, since his politeness and reserve made me afraid to betray my feelings, which, after all, were not reciprocated. What he really thought of me I never knew. He was always so kind, so concerned, and yet was unmercifully stern and strict whenever my obstinacy revolted against his will. One day I was with the children on the balcony, and my mistress had also come out for a moment. I sat busy with some mending, when all at once I felt somebody else was present. Without looking up I recognized the voice that I knew so well, and my heart beat faster. I thought that he would come and speak to me. He, however, did not do so, but spoke to my mistress. At that the blood mounted to my cheeks. "The coward," I said to myself; "he does not even dare to speak to me." I trembled with shame and rage, and nothing on earth could have induced me to look up. Their conversation was short and meaningless, and after a little while he prepared to go. He departed with a polite phrase from my mistress, and with a joke from the children; then I heard a door bang, and knew that he had gone. I felt like crying with anger and sadness. Could it be that such a man was my friend? As soon as I had put the children to bed, I wrote a note asking him to return all my poems and letters, since I wished to discontinue our friendship, which I had only now found out had never been real friendship. I thought he would do at once as I wished, and was surprised not to hear from him. The days passed by, and after a whole week had passed the porter at last handed me a note. "I should like to speak to you. Pray decide on time and place." At first I was determined to send no reply whatever, and kept silent for two days; then I could stand it no longer, and wrote saying "when and where." "What's the meaning of that?" he asked, producing my letter from his pocket; whereupon I began bitterly to reproach him. He did not interrupt me with a single syllable, and so I spoke on and on until I could say no more. "You are a child," he said at last, looking at me half sadly, half amused. His apparent indifference angered me anew. "Pray," I said with great dignity, "when will you return my letters?" His eyes blazed all of a sudden and his lips closed tightly. "Never!" "But they are my own letters." "You are mistaken. The letters belong to me."