Erna smiled again and went away. She was feeling a little better. There was always something soothing in Nielsen and his banter. And she did not wait in the kitchen for his order, but came back to his table. Erna rarely acted parts in Nielsen’s company.
He looked up sympathetically. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but knowing her antipathy for expressed sympathy or soft advances, remained silent. Herr Landsmann looked in upon them. Erna flushed with her old resentment, and the storekeeper frowned and disappeared. Nielsen remarked the exchange. “That’s it, is it?” he observed gently.
“What?”
“The boss?”
She was thoughtful and then admitted: “Yes.”
“What’s the Dutchman done?”
Slowly, and not without reluctance in the beginning, she told him the details, he interrupting her once or twice with encouragement. “Shades of Norway!” he exclaimed in admiration. “You could easily play the Rat-wife in ‘Little Eyolf’.”
She looked at him in a puzzled way, but he laughed and advised her: “Don’t mind me; I’m cracked. Go on!”
Erna related the rest of the incident. He was quietly attentive to every detail, and at the conclusion of her recital, broke out cheerfully: “The trouble with the German is that he’s too slow to catch even a cockroach. Therefore, he resents speed. So Landsmann calls you down. And the girls—well, they’re children, like most females. You’re entirely too dramatic for their comfort.”
Erna never quite understood Nielsen, but she mellowed down to some of her old good nature. Nielsen continued his reassuring nonsense, and gradually, the rest of her good nature was restored. The young writer was not slow to notice the change, and he was glad to have been of service to her. He had no desire to make any personal use of Erna’s present mental condition, but nevertheless, he proceeded: “Erna, you must be tired.”