“Never do it again? What do you mean by that? When you can go up to a man--yes, to me, and kiss me like you did.... What's the good of saying you'll never do it any more; it's done, and a kiss like that's not a thing to forget. I can feel it still, and it's a mad delight, and I thank you for it You've got that letter in your dress; let me see it.” “You're so excited, Hugo. No, it's getting late now. We'd better say good-night.” “Will you show me that letter?” “Show you the letter? Certainly not!” At that he made a half-spring, as if to take it by force, but checked himself, and snapped out: “What? You won't? Well, on my word you are.... Mean's not the word for it. You're something worse....” “Hugo!” “Yes, you are!” “If you _will_ see the letter, here it is!” She thrust her hand into her blouse, took out the letter, opened it, and waved it at him, flourishing her innocence. “Here's the letter--from my mother; there's her signature--look. From mother--and now what have you to say?” He quailed as if at a blow, and only said: “From your mother. Why, then, it didn't matter at all?” “No; there you are. Oh, but of course it did matter in a way, but still....” He leaned up against the fence, and began to work it out: “From your mother.... I see. A letter from your mother came and interrupted us. Do you know what I think? You've been cheating. You've been fooling me all along. I can see it all now.” She tried again. “It was an important letter. Mama is coming--she's coming here to stay very soon. And I was waiting to hear.” “You were cheating all the time, weren't you?” he said again. “Let them bring in the letter just at the right moment, when we'd put out the light. Yes, that's it. You were just leading me on, to see how far I'd go, and kept your maid close at hand to protect you.” “Oh, do be sensible! It's ever so late; we must go in.” “Ugh! I had too much to drink up there, I think. Can't talk straight now.” He could think of nothing but the letter, and went on about it again: “For there was no need to have all that mystery about a letter from home. No; I see it all now. Want to go in, you say? Well then, go in, Fru, by all means. _Godnat, Frue_. My dutiful respects, as from a son.” He bowed, and stood watching her with a sneering smile. “A son? Oh yes,” she replied, with sudden emotion. “I am old, yes. And you are so young, Hugo, that's true. And that's why I kissed you. But I couldn't be your mother--no, it's only that I'm older, ever so much older than you. But I'm not quite an old woman yet, and that you should see if only . . . But I'm older than Elisabet and every one else. Oh, what am I talking about? Not a bit of it. I don't know what else the years may have done to me, but they haven't made me an old woman yet. Have they? What do you think yourself? Oh, but what do you know about it? . . .”