"Perhaps, then, Ingeborg," said Herr Dremmel, "you will have the goodness to go and be ashamed of me in your own room. Then we shall neither of us disturb the other." "You are being so horrible that you're twisting things all wrong, and putting me in the position of having to forgive _you_ when it's _you_ who've got to forgive _me_--" "Pray, then, Ingeborg, go and forgive me in your own room. Then we shall neither of us--" "You're being cruel--oh, but it's unbelievable--you, my husband--you're playing with me like a cat with a miserable mouse, a miserable, sorry mouse, something helpless that can't do anything back and wouldn't if it could--and see how you make me talk, when it's you who ought to be talking! Do, do, Robert, begin to talk--begin to say things, do things, get it over. You've had my letter, you know perfectly what I did--" "I have had no letter, Ingeborg." "How dreadful of you to say that!" she cried, her face full of horror at him. "When you know you have and you know I know you have--that letter I left for you--on this table--" "I have seen no letter on this table." "But I _put_ it here--I put it _here_--" She lifted her hand to point out passionately the very spot to him; and underneath her hand was the letter. Her heart gave one great bump and seemed to stop beating. The letter was where she had put it and was unopened. She looked up at Herr Dremmel. She turned red; she turned white; she tasted the very extremity of shame. "I--beg your pardon," she whispered. Herr Dremmel wore a slight air of apology. "One omits, occasionally, to notice," he said. "Yes," breathed Ingeborg. She stood quite still, her eyes on his face. He pulled out his watch. "Perhaps now, Ingeborg," he said, "you will be so good as to see about tea. I am driving to my fields--" "Yes," breathed Ingeborg. He bent over his work and began writing again. She put out her hand and slowly took up the letter. Tradition, copious imbibing of the precepts of bishops, were impelling her towards that action frequently fatal to the permanent peace of families, the making of a clean breast. "Do you--do you--do you want to--" she began tremblingly, half holding out the letter. Then her voice failed; and her principles failed; and the precepts of a lifetime failed; and she put it in her pocket. "It's--stale," she whispered, explaining. But Herr Dremmel went on writing. He had forgotten the letter. She turned away and went slowly towards the door. In the middle of the room she hesitated, and looked back. "I--I'd _like_ to kiss you," she faltered. But Herr Dremmel went on writing. He had forgotten Ingeborg. THE END