"I am a little nervous of offending you," he continued, "and yet I trust you. It is only this. You said you had come to the end of your money, and that you must go home. It seems a pity when you are getting better. I have so much more than I need. I don't offer it to you as a gift, but I thought if you wished to stay longer, a loan from me would not be quite impossible to you. You could repay as quickly or as slowly as was convenient to you, and I should only be grateful and" . . . . He stopped suddenly. The tears had gathered in Bernardine's eyes her hand rested for one moment on his arm. "Mr. Allitsen," she said, "you did well to trust me. But I could not borrow money of any one, unless I was obliged. If I could of any one, it would have been of you. It is not a month ago since I was a little anxious about money; my remittances did not come. I thought then that if obliged to ask for temporary help, I should come to you: so you see if you have trusted me, I, too, have trusted you." A smile passed over the Disagreeable Man's face, one of his rare, beautiful smiles. "Supposing you change your mind," he said quietly, "you will not find that I have changed mine." Then a few minutes brought them back to Petershof. CHAPTER XVIII. A BETROTHAL. HE had loved her so patiently, and now he felt that he must have his answer. It was only fair to her, and to himself too, that he should know exactly where he stood in her affections. She had certainly given him little signs here and there, which had made him believe that she was not indifferent to his admiration. Little signs were all very well for a short time; but meanwhile the season was coming to an end: she had told him that she was going back to her work at home. And then perhaps he would lose her altogether. It would not be safe now for him to delay a single day longer. So the little postman armed himself with courage. Wärli's brain was muddled that day. He who prided himself upon knowing the names of all the guests in Petershof, made the most absurd mistakes about people and letters too; and received in acknowledgment of his stupidity a series of scoldings which would have unnerved a stronger person than the little hunchback postman. In fact, he ceased to care how he gave out the letters: all the envelopes seemed to have the same name on them: _Marie Truog_. Every word which he tried to decipher turned to that; so finally he tried no more, leaving the destination of the letter to be decided by the impulse of the moment. At last he arrived at that quarter of the Kurhaus where Marie held sway. He heard her singing in her pantry. Suddenly she was summoned downstairs by an impatient bellringer, and on her return found Wärli waiting in the passage. "What a goose you are!" she cried, throwing a letter at him; "you have left the wrong letter at No. 82." Then some one else rang, and Marie hurried off again. She came back with another letter in her hand, and found Wärli sitting in her pantry.