kissed him, too, as he desired. But though her lips smiled and kissed, her eyes were staring and unresponsive. Suddenly she seized him in her arms; he was frightened, for he did not know if it was hate that moved her. But then he felt that she loved him more passionately than ever.
"To-day was really beautiful, wasn't it, my dear, sweet little Agnes?" Diederich asked, happy and contented. "Good-bye," said she, hastily seizing her bag and umbrella while he was still dressing himself.
"You're in a great hurry.—I suppose there is nothing more I can do for you?" She was already at the door, when suddenly she fell with her shoulders against the door post and did not move. "What's wrong?" When Diederich approached he saw that she was sobbing. He touched her. "Yes, what is the matter with you?" Then she began to cry loudly and convulsively. She did not stop. "Agnes, dear," said Diederich from time to time. "What has happened all of a sudden? We were so happy." He did not know what to do. "What have I done to you?" Between spasms of crying which half choked her, she managed to say: "I can't help it. Forgive me." He carried her to the sofa. When the crisis was over Agnes was ashamed. "Forgive me, it is not my fault."—"It is mine! "—"No, no. It is my nerves. I am sorry!"
Full of patience and sympathy he saw her to a cab. Look ing back on it, however, the affair seemed to him half playacting, and one of the tricks which would catch him in the end. He could not get rid of the feeling that plans were being laid against his freedom and his future. He defended himself with rude behaviour, insistence upon his manly independence, and by his coldness whenever her mood was sentimental. On Sundays at Göppel's he was on his guard as if in an enemy's country; he was correct and unapproachable. When would his research work be finished, they would ask. He might find a solution the next day or in two years, he himself didn't know. He stressed the fact that in the future he
