Eleanore hastened through the streets, and suddenly discovered that she was in the Long Row. She turned around. Benda, then on the way over to call on Daniel, caught sight of her, recognised her by the light of the gas lamp, stopped as she passed by him, and looked after her not a little concerned. When she reached home, she sank down on the sofa exhausted. To rid her mind of the memory of the past hour, she took refuge in her longing, longing for a southern country. Her longing was so intense, her desire to go south so fervent, that her face shone as if in fever. But the glass case had at last been broken. The bell rang shortly before eight; she said to Gertrude: “If it is Daniel, send him away. I cannot see any one this evening.” “Are you ill?” asked Gertrude with characteristic sternness. “I don’t know; I simply do not want to see anybody,” said Eleanore, and smiled again as she had smiled in Diruf’s office. It was Daniel, to be sure. Benda had told him that he had seen Eleanore out in front of the house; and when he learned that she had not been to call on Daniel, his anxiety increased. “There is something wrong here,” he said, “you had better go see her.” After they had talked the situation over for a while Benda accompanied Daniel as far as Ægydius Place, in order to make sure that he inquired after Eleanore. Gertrude opened the iron door. “Eleanore does not want you to come in,” she said, with a trace of joy in her eyes. “Why not? What has happened?” “She does not wish to see you,” said the monosyllabic Gertrude, and gazed into the light of the hall lamp. “Is she ill?” “No!” “Then she has got to tell me herself that she does not wish to see me.” “Go!” commanded Gertrude and tossed her head back. Her gloomy eyes hung on his, and the two stood there for a moment opposite each other, like two racers who have come in at the same goal at the same time but from opposite directions. Daniel then turned around, and went down the steps in silence. Gertrude remained standing for a time, her head sinking deeper and deeper all the while on her breast. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands; a cold shudder ran through her body. XVI Before going to bed, Eleanore wrote a letter to Herr Zittel informing him that she was leaving the Prudentia at once. Lying in bed, she could not sleep. She saw herself on the ice cutting bold and novel figures. The spectators, grouped about her in a wide circle, admired her skill. She saw the sea with fishing smacks and coloured sails. She saw gardens full of roses. Her father and Benno had come home long ago. She heard the bell up in the nearby church tower strike twelve—and then one—and then two.