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He forced his voice to be as calm as possible, but it sounded very unnatural in his own ears. He stood quite still and listened. She remained standing for a moment, as though she were considering.

Then she closed the door and went. He could hear that she went hurriedly.

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The first snow had fallen and lay fine and white on the balcony, embroidered by the feet of the sparrows.

The red flowers stood indoors, in the warmth, and looked pitiful. And a big table had been placed at the back of the room, with a lamp upon it and a pile of books.

Cordt came early.

He went straight up to the table, sat down and opened a book. Soon after, he stood at the window and looked out.

It was growing dusk. A damp and misty evening, with a thin, reddish light behind the mist and cold feet and dripping roofs. The snow on the square had melted into slush. The fountain was silent, covered with boards and pine-faggots.

He sat down again and read. He stood up, looked at his watch, went to the window, walked up and down the floor and sat down again. He lit a cigar and let it go out. He went away and came back in an hour and began all over again.