As soon as the last notes ceased, she jumped down from the bench.  Among all the shoulders her shyness returned—­her happy dream, her secret in its bridal attire.  What was it that had happened?  What would happen next?  All round her were sparkling eyes, applauding voices, clapping hands—­was it not as though they lighted torches in his honour, paid him homage—­was not all this in her honour as well?

Dancing began again at once, and off she went.  Off as though all were done for her, or as though she were the “only one!” Her partners tried, one after another, to talk to her, but in vain.  She only laughed, laughed in their faces, as though they were mad, and she alone understood the state of the case.

She danced, beamed, laughed, from one partner to another.  So when Olsen got his waltz it was as though he were received with a score of fresh bouquets and a “Long live Hjalmar Olsen!” He was more than flattered.  When she laid her white arm on his black coat he felt that at the bottom he was as unworthy as Peter Klausson.  He certainly would not sully her, he held her punctiliously away from him.  When he fancied that she was laughing, and wished to see the little creature’s merry face, down there near his waistcoat, and in the endeavour to do so, thought that he had been indiscreet, Hjalmar Olsen felt ashamed of himself, and danced on with his eyes staring straight before him, like a sleep-walker.  He danced on in a dream of self-satisfaction and transport.  Ella tried now and then to touch the floor; she wished to have at least some certainty that she was keeping time.  Impossible!  He took charge at once, of himself, her dance and his, her time and his, she never got near the floor without an effort, all the rest was an aerial flight.  He could hear her laughing and was pleased that she was enjoying it, but he did not look at her.  Those with whom he came into collision were less pleased, which was their affair.  He was greatly put out when the music ceased; they were only just getting into swing, but he was obliged to put her down at the compulsory stopping-place.

Shortly afterwards there was some more singing, first by the Society alone, then they and Aaroe together sang Grieg’s “Landfall.”  Finally, Aaroe sang to a piano accompaniment.  This time Ella had hidden herself among those at the back, but as they constantly pressed forward she remained standing alone.  This exactly suited her; she saw him, but he did not see her, nor even look towards the place where she was standing.

She had never heard this song, did not even know that it existed, although when the first words were heard it was evident that it was known to the others.  Of course she knew that each word and note were his, but as he had before chosen a story which would only reach the one to whom he wished to sing, she did not doubt that it was the same now.  The first words, “My young love’s veiled,” could there be a truer picture of concealed love?  Once more