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With such thoughts in her heart she sat down and
wrote to him, giving him back his freedom. She
wrote sweet persuading words—sense wound about
with a jest, and yet she wrote so that he would
understand how seriously she meant it. While she
wrote, the footfalls of a horse were heard on the road.
“My dear Sir Sunshine,” she thought; “this is
the last time.”
Directly afterwards Baron Adrian came straight
up to her room.
“Why, Adrian, are you coming in here?” she
exclaimed, looking round in horror at all the disorder.
He became shy and awkward at once and stammered
forth an excuse.
“Oh, I have just been writing to you,” she said;
“see, you may as well read it at once.”
He took the letter, and she sat and watched him
while he read it. She was hoping to see his face light
up with joy.
But he had not read far before his face grew fiery
red; he threw the letter on the floor, stamped upon
it, and swore, swore violently.
Then a gentle tremor went through Marienne.
She was no novice in the lesson of love, yet she had
not understood this inexperienced boy, this great
baby.
“Adrian, dear Adrian!” she said. “What comedy
have you been playing with me? Come and tell me
the truth.”
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