Lotte suddenly sensed that she was talking round and round the point, without touching on the matter that lay like a heavy stone on her heart. Nothing she had said so far expressed what was most important to her, for she had no words with which to express it. And so she felt dissatisfied and fell silent. She now had a powerful urge to reveal her soul to Gurdweill. She wanted him to see her as she really was, without any barriers, so that he would sense her soul in all its subtlest folds and nuances without her having to explain her feelings in words, which falsified and confused things rather than clarifying them. But at the same time she was suddenly sure that Gurdweill would never know her properly, because she counted for nothing with him, because he took no more interest in her than in any woman who passed him in the street. And a torrent of resentment surged up in her against the man sitting opposite her, curling a lock of his hair around his finger as if it were the most important thing in the world.

‘Well, Gurdweill, you’re not a great hero, are you? That’s one thing nobody could suspect you of being!’ And she laughed mockingly.

Gurdweill stared at her in bewilderment. ‘A hero? Why a hero?’

‘Because. You probably think you’re a hero.’

‘Me? I’ve never thought so. The idea has never even entered my head.’

‘It makes no difference!’