"_Nanu!_" cried Dellwig breathlessly, staring in blankest astonishment.
"What in the devil's name are you making this noise for? Is the parson
on fire?"

Klutz stared back in a dazed sort of way, his fury dying out at once in
the presence of the stronger nature; then, because he was twenty, and
because he was half-starved, and because he felt he was being cruelly
used, there on Anna's doorstep, in the full light of the evening sun,
with Dellwig's eyes upon him, he burst into a torrent of tears.

"Well of all--what's wrong at Lohm, you great sheep?" asked Dellwig,
seizing his arm and giving him a shake.

Klutz signified by a movement of his head that nothing was wrong at
Lohm. He was crying like a baby, into a red pocket-handkerchief, and
could not speak.

Dellwig, still gripping his arm, stared at him a moment in silence; then
he turned him round, pushed him down the steps, and walked him off.
"Come along, young man," he said, "I want some explanation of this. If
you are mad you'll be locked up. We don't fancy madmen about our place.
And if you're not mad you'll be fined by the Amtsvorsteher for
disorderly conduct. Knocking like that at a lady's door! I wonder you
didn't kick it in, while you were about it. It's a good thing the
_Herrschaften_ are out."

Klutz really felt ill. He leaned on Dellwig's arm and let himself be
helped along, the energy gone out of him with the fury. "You have never
loved," was all he said, wiping his eyes.

"Oh that's it, is it? It is love that made you want to break the
knocker? Why didn't you go round to the back? Which of them is it? The
cook, of course. You look hungry. A Kandidat crying after a cook!" And
Dellwig laughed loud and long.

"The cook!" cried Klutz, galvanised by the word into life. "The cook!"
He thrust a shaking hand into his breast-pocket and dragged it out, the
precious paper, unfolding it with trembling fingers, and holding it
before Dellwig's eyes. "So much for your cooks," he said, tremulously
triumphant. They were in the road, out of sight of the house. Dellwig
took the paper and held it close to his eyes. "What's this?" he asked,
scrutinising it. "It is not German."

"It is English," said Klutz.

"What, the governess----?"

Klutz merely pointed to the name at the end. Oh, the sweetness of that
moment!

"Anna?" read out Dellwig, "Anna? That is Miss Estcourt's name."

"It is," said Klutz, his tears all dried up.

"It seems to be poetry," said Dellwig s