left me, that he has gone out on some errand and will be back very soon.
I spend about an hour there every day, going on with my work, embroidering his linen, and chatting to the maid.
To-day we have been busy preparing a festive reception for him. We have dusted and polished; and everything is spick and span. We have put fresh flowers and foliage in all the vases, and I have decided what he is to have for lunch.
The last thing I did before I left the place was to write him a welcoming note, which he will find on his writing-table.
Therefore, come to me, beloved, the bridal house is garnished, and your bride awaits you. Your bride who has no other wish in her heart than to be yours, and to do your bidding.
I THINK he was really happy to see me again, he was so dear to me.
But there is one thing I don't understand. Why should he for a moment seem out of tune when I showed him how busy I had been with the table linen.
I asked him if he did not like my coming to the flat when he was away, and he answered: 'No, it isn't that, but—well, dear, you really are too good to me, and I don't deserve it at all.'
Which, of course, I think is quite silly, for he ought to know that I have no greater pleasure
