After you had left Copenhagen last spring, and I sat reading all
the live-long day, until at last I went to bed, my lips did not
close on your name, till my eyes had closed on your picture.
HADDA PADDA. You must never call me anything but that. Each time
you say it, it brings back the joy of your first kiss.
INGOLF. Were you really in love with me then?
HADDA PADDA. You don't know? ... Then I did succeed in hiding it?
INGOLF. Why did you hide it, Hadda? Why, I almost believed you
bore me a grudge. You seemed to hold more aloof each day.
HADDA PADDA. And even that did not betray me?
INGOLF. Why did you hide it, Hadda?
(Footsteps are heard outside.)
HADDA PADDA [kisses Ingolf hastily, gets up, and seats herself at
his side, takes his hand]. Don't you understand, dear, I was
afraid of knowing the certainty. The stronger my love grew, the
more carefully I had to hide it. I dared not risk those beautiful
dream-children of uncertainty for a disguised certainty. Whenever
we talked together, and you looked up at me, I was startled. I
thought you understood, and your hurried glance reached me only
after the fear of seeing the answer in it.
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