Inga, who, at several points of this narrative, had been struggling hard to preserve her gravity, here burst into a ringing laugh. “That is what I call scientific love-making,” said Arnfinn, looking up from the book with an expression of subdued amusement. “But Arnfinn,” cried the girl, while the laughter quickly died out of her face, “does Mr. Strand know that you are reading this?” “To be sure he does. And that is just what to my mind makes the situation so excessively comical. He has himself no suspicion that this book contains anything but scientific notes. He appears to prefer the empiric method in love as in philosophy. I verily believe that he is innocently experimenting with himself, with a view to making some great physiological discovery.” “And so he will, perhaps,” rejoined the girl, the mixture of gayety and grave solicitude making her face, as her cousin thought, particularly charming. “Only not a physiological, but possibly a psychological one,” remarked Arnfinn. “But listen to this. Here is something rich: “August 9--Miss Augusta once said something about the possibility of animals being immortal. Her eyes shone with a beautiful animation as she spoke. I am longing to continue the subject with her. It haunts me the whole day long. There may be more in the idea than appears to a superficial observer.” “Oh, how charmingly he understands how to deceive himself,” cried Inga. “Merely a quid pro quo,” said Arnfinn. “I know what I shall do!” “And so do I.” “Won’t you tell me, please?” “No.” “Then I sha’n’t tell you either.” And they flew apart like two thoughtless little birds (“sanguine,” as Strand would have called them), each to ponder on some formidable plot for the reconciliation of the estranged lovers. V.