at him before she went out. He was so pale--and he had sent her one
look.

As she stood outside the door she knew it was Salvé, although she had
always pictured him to herself as a common sailor. She stood there
trembling all over, and fumbling with the latch of the door in the
greatest agitation, evidently debating with herself whether she should
dare go in again. She pressed upon the latch, in the certainty that it
would go up before she had actually decided that she would go in; and it
did so. The door opened again of itself, and Elizabeth entered with
downcast eyes, and scarlet in the face, and passed through the room,
making a slight inclination of her head, as if for greeting, as she
passed him. She had reached the opposite door when she heard a quiet
bitter laugh behind her.

At once she turned, with pride in every feature of her face, and looked
at him.

"How do you do, Salvé Kristiansen?" she said, firmly and quietly.

"How do you do, Elizabeth?" he replied, rather huskily, getting up and
looking confused.

"Are you lying here in Amsterdam with some vessel?"

He sat down again, for there was something in her manner that denied
approach.

"No; in Pürmurende," he replied. "I only came in here to--"