And, shortly after, Peter Oiland was comfortably seated in a corner with a lovely big glass of grog, enjoying himself thoroughly, and, to complete his satisfaction, Andrea sang:
"Thou art my one and only thought,
My one and only love...."
Peter drank deep of the joy of life, and eke of grog, and Andrea seemed more charming than ever.
Later in the evening he held forth to the ladies—among whom, as above mentioned, were all the members of the Women's Union—about the blacks of the South Sea Islands, and gave so lurid a description of the state of things there prevailing as to make his audience fairly shudder.
"And would you believe it, on one of the islands in the Pacific, a place called Kolamukka, belonging to Queen Rabagadale, they eat roast baby just as we do sucking pig, the only difference being that they don't serve them up with lemons in their mouths."
Sukkestad thought this was going rather too far, and broke in, "Oh, come now, Oiland; you're exaggerating, I'm sure. Thank goodness, all the poor heathens are not cannibals."
"Have to quote the worst examples, to make it properly interesting," said Oiland, which dictum was supported by Mrs. Writher, who declared that one could not paint these things too darkly; it was hard enough as it was to make people realise the dreadful state of those benighted creatures.
When the guests had left, Mrs. Sukkestad felt some qualms of conscience at the thought of having "served intoxicating liquors" in her house. She lay awake for hours, debating with herself whether she ought to confess at once to her husband. The excuse about having a cold was—well, rather poor after all. Suppose Oiland had a weakness, a leaning towards drink, and she had led him astray! His cough, too, had vanished so quickly, it was suspicious. However, she decided to say nothing for the present.
It was a fine, bright, sunny day when Sukkestad and Peter Oiland, as delegates from Strandvik to the meeting at Stavanger, stepped on board the coasting steamer, which was already half full of delegates with white neckerchiefs and broad-brimmed felt hats.
The smoke-room was thick with the fumes of cheap tobacco and a hum of quiet talk from decent folk in black Sunday coats and well-polished leg boots. A swarthy little commercial traveller, with a bright red tie and waxed moustache, sat squeezed up in a corner puffing at a "special" cigar with a coloured waistband.