And she lets me, half unwillingly, and then I hit a little harder, for a
jest, and laugh, and ask if that doesn't make her feel better.

"Oh, please, don't when I ask you; _please_," says she.

Those few words! There was something so helpless about her saying it so,
the wrong way round: "Please don't when I ask you."...

Then we went on along the road again. Was she displeased with me for my
jest, I wondered? And thought to myself: Well, let us see. And I said:

"I just happened to think of something. Once when I was out on a sledge
party, there was a young lady who took a silk kerchief from her neck and
fastened it round mine. In the evening, I said to her: 'You shall have
your kerchief again to-morrow; I will have it washed.' 'No,' she said,
'give it to me now; I will keep it just as it is, after you have worn
it.' And I gave it to her. Three years after, I met the same young lady
again. 'The kerchief,' I said. And she brought it out. It lay in a
paper, just as before; I saw it myself."

Edwarda glanced up at me.

"Yes? And what then?"

"That is all," I said. "There was nothing more. But I thought it was
nice of her."

Pause.

"Where is that lady now?"