The sun was going down but it was still long before sunset in this northern clime. There was a golden haze in the air, with hoards of mosquitoes and tiny insects in column formation flitting about like a dancing procession. Klopstock’s grave was west of the Zorn villa, where the sun was sliding down the curving horizon and making the many-branched linden tree over the tomb look like a burnished bush. There was tumult in her brain and her heart was beating irregularly. A number of limes she halted and half-turned, as if she were attempting to twist herself loose from the embrace of some invisible being, but soon again she proceeded on her way. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said as he came running toward her. His teeth were almost chattering, his voice was strained. “I shouldn’t have come—I know I shouldn’t,” she was saying, scarcely glancing at him. “Why do you despise me so?—” He touched her hand which she withdrew quickly and put it back of her like an angered child. “You don’t know how miserable I feel—Hilda—.” His voice was plaintive, pleading. “I know you detest me—You don’t even care for my poems, the echoes of my heart. Oh, Hilda—just a word—” “You make me so unhappy,” she interrupted him. He thought he saw anger in her eyes. “I am so sorry if my love makes you unhappy.” His voice was now penitent, humble, beseeching. “But I can’t help it, Hilda. We don’t will love—love wills us. I understand. I am not blaming you—you can’t help hating me as I can’t help loving you. I am not as dull as you think. I understand—Some girl might love me and I mightn’t care for her—” Her eyes dilated; a pallor crept over her cheeks. “Is that girl in Hamburg?” There was naiveté in her tone. “There is no other girl. No one is in love with me. I was only explaining how nature works. One loves and the beloved loves another—” “I am sure you have a girl in mind. Who is she?” “I swear to you there is no one—” “I am sure from the way you said it there is someone—anyhow, you wouldn’t tell me even if there were—” “I would tell you the truth—I wouldn’t be ashamed to tell you if someone were in love with me. Oh, a long time ago—I was a youngster then.” “Is she still in love with you?” He waved his arms in despair. “Oh, no, she is dead—But I am not thinking of anyone but you—” “What did the other girl look like? Was she light or dark?” “Oh, why speak of her—she is dead, I tell you—” he spoke impatiently. “You must still be thinking of her or you wouldn’t remember her now. I am sure you are in love with her still—was she pretty?” He was beside himself. “I tell you she is dead—” There was exasperation in his tone. “And you mean to tell me you never had a love affair since then?” She was drawing an 8 on the ground with the tip of her slipper. “Of course I have never loved anyone as I love you.” “Then you did love her!” “I might have had a boyish fancy—I wrote a poem about her—”