Hilda.
And then, when you come home again—is it to be an engagement? Are you going to marry her?
Lyngstrand.
No, I scarcely think that would do. You see, marriage is out of the question for me for a few years yet; and then, when I have made my way, she will be a bit too old for me, I fancy.
Hilda.
And yet you want her to go on thinking of you?
Lyngstrand.
Yes; for it would help me so much; as an artist, you understand. And she, having no special vocation of her own in life, can so easily do it.—But it is kind of her, all the same.
Hilda.
Do you think, then, that you can get on quicker with your group if you know that Boletta is thinking of you at home here?
Lyngstrand.
Yes, I imagine so. You see, the knowledge that somewhere in the world a young, exquisite, silent woman is secretly dreaming of one—I think it must be so—so. Well, I scarcely know what to call it.
Hilda.
Do you mean—thrilling?
Lyngstrand.
Thrilling? Oh yes. It is thrilling I mean; or
