She had clambered up on his knee, with her arms round his neck; the others were still in the drawing-room.
"Lovely, was it, little one?" said Holm in a somewhat gentler voice.
"Yes, papa—oh, I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much as this evening. And only fancy, Hilmar Strom, the composer—there, you can see, the tall thin man in glasses—he said I had a beautiful voice—beautiful!"
"Don't you believe it, my child."
"What—when a great artist like that says so? Oh, I was so happy—and now you come and...." She stood up and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Just then William came in.
"Hullo, what's the matter? What are you crying for?"
"Papa—papa says I'm not to believe what Hilmar Strom said—that I'd a beautiful voice. Ugh—it's always like that at home—it's miserable." She leaned over in a corner of the sofa, hiding her face in her hands.
"Yes, you're right. Oh, we shall have pleasant memories of home to go out into the world with." And William stalked off in dudgeon.
Holm sat there like a criminal, at a loss what to make of it all. Oh, these young folk! They always seemed to manage to turn the tables on him somehow. He couldn't even get properly angry now.
And Marie—he was always helpless where she was concerned. He was sorry now he had not brought her up differently. But he had never said an unkind word to her—how could he, to a sweet little thing like that? Only last year she had nursed him herself for three weeks, when he was at death's door with inflammation of the lungs; that girl, that girl! He went over to the sofa and put his arms round her.