When he woke up it was dark night. The house was quite silent. He lit a light, and looked at his watch; it pointed to half-past eleven. He considered for a little, and then determined to go across the courtyard to see Karen. He was sure to find her awake; sometimes she kept her lamp burning until two o’clock. For some time she had been doing embroidery work; she said she wanted to earn some money. So far she had not succeeded, but she had taken no great pains to sell her work. He crossed the dark court, and mounted the dark stairs. He stopped at the open hall window of the third floor. The night was sultry. On one side, through a canyon between the black and lifeless brick walls of two houses, he saw smoke stacks project into the darkness. They came from the earth itself and overtopped the roofs. They were tipped with lightning-rods, and from some of them came thick fumes shot with the quiver of flames. Below was blackness, empty land hedged in by wooden fences, rough beams piled in heaps, low isolated huts, sand-pits and mortar-pits, and darkness and silence over all. To the left of the stairs was the door to the Hofmanns’ flat. When he was letting himself into Karen’s rooms, he still gazed back at that door. He thought he was being called thither, but it was a delusion. Karen was in bed. “Why, what do you want so late?” she grumbled. “I’d like a little quiet sometime.” “I beg your pardon,” he said courteously. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I thought we might chat for a little while.” “I’d like to know the good of all this talking, day and night.” She was annoyed, and even her laugh showed it. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “You must tell me what happened to you after Adam Larsen’s death,” he said. “I can’t get rid of the impression of your words: the things that happened then.... Of course, I can imagine in a general way. I have insight enough into life now to make a guess....” She interrupted him with a note of contempt in her voice. “No, you can’t guess nothing and you can’t imagine nothing. I’d bet my last rag on that.” “That’s all the more reason why I’d like you to tell me about it,” he urged her. “You have never done so.” There was an hostility in her silence, and it suddenly became clear to him that some stubborn instinct in her refused to initiate him wholly into her world. All that he had done for her had not sufficed to conquer the distrust of him and his kind that was bred into her very bone. The realization of this fact made him feel sad and helpless. “I went to bed at seven to-day,” she said, blinking her eyes. “I wasn’t feeling a bit well. I believe I’m going to be sick.” Christian looked at her, and he could not keep the disquietude and urgency out of his eyes. Karen closed her lids. “Nothing but torment, torment, torment,” she moaned. Christian was frightened. “No, no. Forgive me. I’ll go.”