That
great day had now come; Arnfinn sat at Inga's
side playing with her white fingers, which lay
resting on his knee, and covering the depth of
his feeling with harmless banter about her
"amusingly unclassical little nose." He had
once detected her, when a child, standing before
a mirror, and pinching this unhappy feature in
the middle, in the hope of making it "like
Augusta's;" and since then he had no longer felt
so utterly defenseless whenever his own foibles
were attacked.
"But what of your friend, Arnfinn?" exclaimed
Inga, as she ran up the stairs of the
pier. "He of whom you have written so much.
I have been busy all the morning making the
blue guest-chamber ready for him."
"Please, cousin," answered the student, in a
tone of mock entreaty, "only an hour's respite!
If we are to talk about Strand we must make a
day of it, you know. And just now it seems so
grand to be at home, and with you, that I
would rather not admit even so genial a subject
as Strand to share my selfish happiness."
"Ah, yes, you are right. Happiness is too
often selfish. But tell me only why he didn't
come and I'll release you."
"He IS coming."
"Ah! And when?"
"That I don't know. He preferred to take
the journey on foot, and he may be here at
almost any time. But, as I have told you, he is
very uncertain. If he should happen to make
the acquaintance of some interesting snipe, or
crane, or plover, he may prefer its company to
ours, and then there is no counting on him any
longer.
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