“Doing?” says he. “What else should I do? Love isn't glycerine--it's nitro-glycerine.” And he takes her by the arm and leads her in. Well, 'tis their affair.... But the stout Captain and his lady are coming up; the pair in the summer-house will hardly be aware of their approach, and Fru Falkenberg would perhaps find it far from agreeable to be discovered sitting there with a man just now. I look about for some means of warning them; here is an empty bottle; I go to the window and fling it as hard as I can over towards the summer-house. There is a crash, bottle and tiles are broken, and the pieces go clattering down over the roof; a cry of dismay from within, and Fru Falkenberg rushes out, her companion behind her still grasping her dress. They stop for a moment and look about them. “Bror!” cries Fru Falkenberg, and sets off at a run down the shrubbery. “No, don't come,” she calls back over her shoulder. “You _mustn't_, I tell you.” But the engineer ran after her, all the same. Wonderfully young he was, and all inflexible. Now the stout Captain and his lady come up, and their talk is a marvel to hear. Love: there is nothing like it, so it seems. The stout cavalier must be sixty at the least, and the lady with him, say forty; their infatuation was a sight to see. The Captain speaks: “And up to this evening I've managed to hide it somehow, but now--well, it's more than any man can. You've bewitched me Frue, completely.” “I didn't think you cared so much, really,” she answers gently, trying to help him along. “Well, I do,” he says. “And I can't stand it any longer, and that's the truth. When we were up in the woods just now, I still thought I could get through one more night, and didn't say anything much at the time. But now; come back with me, say you will!” She shook her head. “No; oh, I'd love to give you ... do what you....” “Ah!” he exclaims, and, throwing his arms about her, stands pressing his round paunch against hers. There they stood, looking like two recalcitrants that would not. Oh, that Captain! “Let me go,” she implored him. He loosened his hold a trifle and pressed her to him again. Once more it looked as if both were resisting. “Come back up into the wood,” he urged again and again. “Oh, it's impossible!” she answered. “And then it's all wet with the dew.” But the Captain was full of passionate words--full and frothing over. “Oh, I used to think I didn't care much about eyes! Blue eyes--huh! Grey eyes--huh! Eyes any sort of colour--huh! But then you came with those brown eyes of yours....” “They are brown, yes....” “You burn me with them; you--you roast me up!” “To tell the truth, you're not the first that's said nice things about my eyes. My husband now....” “Ah, but what about me!” cries the Captain. “I tell you, Frue, if I'd only met you twenty years ago, I wouldn't have answered for my reason. Come; there's no dew to speak of up in the wood.” “We'd better go indoors, I think,” she suggests.