They sat down on the sofa. Her happiness, her violent joy, communicated itself to him, carried him away, and made him tender with gratitude. How she loved him, how she sacrificed herself for him and did for him what she could! He embraced her passionately, kissed her time and again, and held her close to his breast. "I am so happy," she whispered. "I knew something was going to make me glad; as I walked upstairs it seemed as if I were going into an embrace! Dearest boy, no--the door--!" The sun rose higher, the thrushes twittered passionately outside. The first bird notes of spring, he thought again, how unsophisticated these little creatures were in their chatter! "How bright it is here!" she said; "it is much brighter here than elsewhere." "Do you think so?" he answered smilingly. He walked over to the window and began to pluck from his clothes the fine, grey woolly fuzz her dress had left there. She sat still on the sofa, her eyes on the floor, blushing, arranging her hair a little. A ring flashed on each of her hands. He could not remain there at the window so indifferently. She was beginning to notice it; she looked up; and besides, she was remarkably beautiful as she sat there fixing her hair. He stepped over to her and kissed her as warmly as he could. "Don't kiss me, darling," she said; "be careful! Look here--it is the spring air." She showed him a little red spot on her under lip. He asked her if it hurt, and she answered that it was not that, but she was afraid he might catch it from her. Suddenly she asked: "Listen, can you come to Tivoli to-night? There is an operatic performance. Couldn't we meet there? Otherwise I'll die of loneliness." He remembered that he was going to the Art Exhibition. What might happen afterward was hard to tell; he had better not promise anything. No, he said, he was afraid it would be impossible; he had made certain arrangements with Ole Henriksen. "Oh, please--do come! I would be so proud and grateful!" "But why in the world do you want to go to Tivoli?" "But there is opera to-night!" "Well, what of it? That means nothing to me. Well, if you like--" "No, not if I like," she said sadly. "You seem so indifferent, Irgens! Yes, I admit I should like to go to the opera, but--Where are you going this evening? I am just like a compass-needle now: I oscillate, I may even swing all the way round, but I hark constantly back to one point--I point continually in one direction. It is you I am thinking of always." Her little bewildered heart trembled. He looked at her. He knew it only too well--there was nothing he could reproach her with; she had been more than good to him. However, all he could promise was that he would come if at all possible. * * * * *