"Oh, stop that nonsense, do," growled Holm. And, snatching up a bottle of the old Madeira, he took it into the dining-room and hid it behind the sofa.
"Dearest, darling papa, you're not going to be bad-tempered now, are you?" whispered Marie, throwing her arms around his neck.
"I'm not bad-tempered—I'm angry."
"Oh, but you mustn't. Why, what is there to be angry about?"
Holm was dumbfounded. Nothing to be angry about indeed. He ought perhaps to say thank you to these young rascals for allowing him to stay up with them?
"Shall I sing to you, papa?"
"Sing! no, thank you. I'd rather not."
"But what's the matter? What's it all about?"
"What's the matter—good heavens, why, my '52 Madeira, isn't that enough?"
"Oh, is that all? I'm sure it couldn't have been put to better use. You ought to have heard Frantz Pettersen making up things on the spur of the moment; it was simply lovely."