"Thank God," said I, when I had recovered myself. "I imagined you'd be in bed."
She shook her head on my shoulder.
Then she straightened, took my face in her hands and looked at me.
"To think you are here," she murmured. "That you have corne!"
She kissed me, cautiously, solemnly, warily, like something one does not want to break.
As I felt her lips I started to tremble.
It had all gone so quickly, I did not quite realise it yet.
I was not properly there yet; I was still full of the journey, the roar of the engine, and the road.
I felt like someone coming out of the cold and the night into a warm room: he feels the warmth on his skin, sees it with his eyes, but is not yet warm.
"We drove pretty fast," said I.
She did not answer. She just looked at me in silence. Her solemn face had a piercing expression, her eyes were close in front of me, and it was as if she were seeking, trying to find again something very important.
I felt disconcerted. I put my hands on her shoulders and dropped my eyes.
"Are you staying?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Tell me at once.
Tell me if you are going away again, so that I may know at once."
I meant to answer that I didn't know yet, and that probably I should have to go again in a few days because I hadn't the money to stay.
But I couldn't do it.
I just could not while she looked at me like that.
"Yes," said I, "I'm staying.
Until we go back together."
Her face did not change.
But suddenly it grew bright, as if lighted from within. "Ach," she murmured, "I couldn't have endured it."
I tried to read over her shoulder the temperature chart at the head of the bed.
She noticed it, swiftly drew the sheet from its container, crumpled it and threw it under the bed.
"That doesn't signify any more," said she.
I noted where the screwed-up paper lay and determined to pocket it afterwards when she wasn't looking.
"Were you sick?" I asked.
"A bit.
But that's over now."
"What did the doctor say?"
She laughed.
"Don't ask about the doctor now.
Don't ask anything any more.
You are here, that's enough."
She was suddenly altered.
I don't know if it came from the fact that I had not seen her for so long, but she seemed to me different from before.
Her movements were more graceful, her skin warmer, the way she came to me was different; she was no longer just a beautiful young girl that one must protect; something else had entered in, and whereas before I had often not known whether she loved me, now I was conscious of it, she concealed nothing any more, she was more vivacious and nearer to me than ever, more lively, nearer and more beautiful, more delighting, but in a strange way also more disturbing.
"Pat," said I. "I must go down quickly.
Koster is below.
We must see where we're going to put up."
"Koster?
And where is Lenz?"
"Lenz . . ." said I. "Lenz has stayed at home."
She noticed nothing.
"Can you venture down, afterwards?" I asked. "Or should we come up here?"
"I can venture anything.
I can venture everything now.
We'll go down, and then have something to drink.
I'll watch, while you drink."