"There, there, little one, it's not so bad as all that."
"Hu—hu—hu—I didn't know—I didn't know about the old Madeira. It was me—hu—hu—that brought it up."
"Well, well, never mind about the Madeira, child. We can get some more; only don't cry now."
She turned towards him.
"Then you're not angry with me any more, papa?" "No, no, child. There—now go in and enjoy yourself again."
"Oh, but it's so horrid, papa—I'm sure the others must have noticed us."
Just then William came in and reported that the scene had made a painful impression on the guests; Strom, the composer, and Berg, the sculptor, were for going off at once, and were only with difficulty persuaded to stay.
Holm did not know what to say to this; the transition from accuser to accused was too sudden.
"Couldn't you make us some punch, father; it would sort of set things right again if you were to come marching in yourself with a big bowl of punch."
"Punch? H'm—well—I could, of course, but then ..."