But in the meantime I had accustomed myself to the thought that here was a young girl waiting and longing for me to come again.—No, you mustn't interrupt me, dear Boletta! And, you see,—when a man, like myself, is no longer in the first flush of youth, such a belief—or illusion—makes an exceedingly strong impression. A vivid—a grateful affection for you grew up within me. I felt I must come to you; see you again; tell you that I shared the feelings which I imagined you entertained for me.
Boletta.
But now, when you know that it was not so! That it was a mistake!
Arnholm.
That makes no difference, Boletta. Your image—as it dwells in my heart—will always remain coloured and thrown into relief by the feeling that mistake aroused in me. Perhaps you cannot understand this; but so it is.
Boletta.
I never dreamed that anything of the kind was possible.
Arnholm.
But now that you see it is? What do you say, Boletta? Can you not make up your mind to—to be my wife?
Boletta.
Oh, it seems so utterly impossible, Mr. Arnholm. You, who have been my teacher! I cannot imagine myself standing in any other kind of relation to you.
