She seemed strangely absent
and thoughtful, by turns unnaturally silent and feverishly
talkative, would sit for hours beside him glancing mysteriously at
him from time to time, as if she knew something very wonderful, and
were debating in her own mind whether to tell it or keep it to
herself. She blushed if he looked at her inquiringly, and rushed
away and locked herself into her boudoir.
He watched these peculiar proceedings patiently for about a week,
and then asked one day, not without a secret misgiving:
"Pilar, what is the matter with you lately?"
Probably she had only waited for this. She cast herself upon his
breast, drew his head down, and whispered something in his ear. He
straightened himself up with a jerk.
"Are you certain?" he asked, with an unsteady voice.
"Almost, I think; yes, Wilhelm, it must be so," she stammered,
hiding her face on his shoulder.
It was well she did not look at him at that moment. Unskilled as he
was in the art of dissembling, his face expressed no pleasure at
all, but only painful surprise. For weeks, but more especially since
his gloomy broodings on New-Year's night, the anxious thought lay
heavy on him, "What if our connection should have results?" The
situation would then become so complicated that he saw no prospect
of ever putting it straight again.
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